LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf,.Li.l5 - 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Inflexible Factoes 
/ 



OTHER SHORT PIECES 



R. A. E., S. D. E., T. S. S., S. S. H., D. N. R. 

AND OTHERS 



J. -I \ c\.'i e. I 

\ I 

NOT PUBLISHED 

Copyright, by E. D. Ward & Co., 1893 



INFLEXIBLE FACTOES. 

A collection of Frames for Verses and Essays, with other short 
Pieces, mostly lyrical in general character, arranged in Suites, Trip- 
tychs, Diptychs, Words for Illumination or to accompany Illustra- 
tious, Words for Music, and as Single Pieces, and frequently illus- 
trating results from inflexible factors. 

With a Prelude. 



CONTENTS. 



NOTE. 
PRELUDE. 
SUITES : 

Agralaide : 

I. Submission. 
II. Half a year. 

III. When the house is hushed. 

IV. Through the crowded streets 
V. Unto the splendid capital. 

VI. His name in llowers. 

VII. Last night. 

VIII. All through the night. 

IX. Agral. 

X. The Soldan. 
XI. In Italy, 

The Eglantine : 
I. Unfolding. 
II. To itself. 

III. To its lover. 

IV. On the mountain side. 

V. In the city. 
VL June 

VII. Heason. 
VIII. Couplets. 
IX. Lines in a little girl's album. 

X. In the air sometimes. 

Three Winds : 

I. The east wind. 
II. The changing wind. 
III. The southwest wind. 

ACHRALAL : 

I. ?. 
II. Sweetest eyes. 

III. To an unknown. 

IV. Confession. 

V. Law. 

As Differing Links Enchained : 

I. AffXififfTOs. 

II. Shame. 

IIL Fear. 

IV. Faithfulness. 



In a Garden : 

I. Now on a broad, uncertain sea. 
II. I saw my love a fainting lily. 

III. Love's Chaplet (three forms). 

IV. Angolus. 

V. Angel of God. 

30, 40, 50 & 60 : 

I. O nut brown eyes. 
II. I read these word.s. 

III. The autumn moonlight. 

IV. nut brown eyes. 

Au Cafi'; : 

I. Caresses. 
II. Appendix. 

III. Commentary. 

IV. Coda. 

Stadia : 

I. A school boy's translation, 
II. A new love. 

III. The message. 

IV. After all. 

When the Summer is Ended : 

I. AnOAAHN. 

II. The last sigh of the expiring con- 
volvulus. 
III. The sunflower. 

Triptyciis : 

The High Priest. 
A Dream. 

DiPTYCils : 

Spring. Youth. 
The grief. 

Les Champs Elysoes. 
The best part of life. 
Practicality. 
Needless los.ses. 
Uupracticality. 
I. Drifting. 

II. One breath of Indian Summer. 
In the troa-sury. 

I. The Queen of Sheba gave great 

Solomon. 
II. Paling the glory of King Solomon. 



WORDS FOR ILLUMINATION OR TO 
ACCOMPANY ILLUSTRATIONS : 
Tower of Ivory ! 
The circling year. 
The Song of the Rose. 
A Climbing Rose. 
With a jewelled " damoiselle." 
An Iris. 
A portrait. 
A time serene. 
Benedictus qui patitur. 

WORDS FOR MUSIC. 
Four School and College Songs : 
Boating Song. 
Far off friends. 
The two Bobo'links. 
Kineherd's song. 

Four Minstrel Songs : 
Molly True. 
Elegy. 

Mary far away. 
Beyond the stars. 

Serenades and Miscellaneous Songs : 
My star. 

Softly the night winds. 
The stilly night. 
Nearer, nearer. 
In spring time. 
Shamus Moriarty. 
When the one I love is near me. 
Shouldst thou stand on the golden stair. 

Five Devotional Pieces. 
Cradle Song. 
A Ranter's Hymn. 



The adoration of the Magi. 
Under the Crucifix. 
At Whitsuntide. 

SINGLE PIECES. 

The Singer. 

Terrible as an army with banners. 

As I sailed. 

Weighing. 

When these winter nights are o'er. 

Rest. 

Despondency. 

The Christian Church. 

To Beneficence. 

First of the train. 

Sonnet. 

Vestality. 

The dreamers. 

The Victims. 

The Best Way, or My Way. 

Hymn. 

The Lost Lord. 

Native Moments. 

As years roll on. 

Oh ! time, oh ! fate. 

Where there is suffering. 

Inflexible Factors. 

presence, unseen presence of the 

one I love. 
A Coming Change. 
The grains of sand. 
The Jesu-worshipper. 
The Gamesters. 
Aspiration. 
As one led. 

CONCLUDING NOTE. 



APPENDIX. 



A theory of the Origin (and transmission) 
of Organic Form. 

A theory of Pattern (miscalled Design) in 
Nature. 

A theory of the Origin of Rhythm. 

The Sacerdote says. 

Round on Round. 

A Resume of a System of Concentrated 
Residence. 

Treatment of convicts (see the Dreamers). 

A Method of quickly securing Accurate 
Proportion in Drawing from Objects 
(see the Story of a 12th Night Festi- 
val). 



Postscripta: Backlook and Outlook. In 
the Laucustrine Abodes. The Demo- 
cratic Idea. Of Binding and Binding. 
Etc., etc. 

Note on the Independence of Motiona. 

Account of Patents. 

The Origin of Xitria, etc. 

Studies for a Preface to poems. 

Letters relating to the hopeless vulgarity 
of the Human Race, etc. 

Ahriman. 

[See also Notes and prefaces to Xitria, 

and A 12th Night Festival, and Notebooks 

from cir. 1881.] 



NOTE. 

Some years ago I fell into tho habit of hastily jotting down in 
pencil, fragments which 1 thought might be used in some connected 
or disconnected poetic form or foi-nis. I thought of them as frames 
or scaffoldings for verses ; and, for want of a better name, they are 
here called so. They are given as separate pieces, arranged in the 
groups, made up of these frames and more regular verses, to which, 
for any reason, they seemed most properly to Ixilong. Most ol them 
were written, each piece all at one time, and just as they stand here, 
except that they were written us prose. Some of them, however, 
were added to fi-om time to time, or only completed long — perhaps 
years — afterward. The three forms of Love's chaplet show the only 
attempt made to curry the original notion into effect. For this at- 
tempt showed me that, however great the value of form, and whatever 
success attention to it might have with others, with me, in this case 
at least, the loss of spontaneity was not compensated for by the 
greater regularity of form. Later, becoming acquainted with the 
poems of Whitinan and others, where the form has a value depend- 
ing on something more subtle than u regularity which results merely 
from correspondence or ap})roximatc identity, rather than balance, of 
parts, I thought best to leave the pieces as they stood — pieces often 
commenced as frames for verses or essays, or as mere memoranda of 
a passing thought, yet sometimes ending as verses, though all written 
at a sitting — only they have been printed in lines which, it seemed, 
would make clearer, to the eye of a reader, the rhythms which, impei'- 
ceived but not unfelt, fell spontaneous from the hand of the writer. 

To these have been added, b}^ permission, various pieces, by 
friends of the author and others, bearing on the themes coming un- 
der the several headings among which they are distributed. Most 
of their writers were, and are, unknown to each other. As several 
of them prefer to remain anonymous, the names of the authors of 
the poems arc not given. And, instead, devices are used which will 
enable any of the authors who nuiy latei' desire to claim their own, 
to do so, and without affecting the (others. 

Although, in a general way, anyone? who i>erceives or reads of any 
form of suffering or happiness, however slight or remote it may be, 
will yet be likely, sooner or later, to look about, though only casually 
and vaguely, for some way of diminishing like sufferings or increas- 
ing like ha[)i)inesses; and although, too, the gradual lessening of any 



and all of the myriad forms of sufferiii<^ or loss i)0ssil)lc to sentient 
beings is the central impulse of evolution, yet these little pieces put 
forth no claim to assist in promoting changes, especially particular 
or definite changes. Alike, whether when tolling of joy or sorrow, 
they are merely reflections, as from a mii-ror, consecpicnt on chance 
perceivings of conditions which, almost in i)revailing, imply, or seem 
likely in time to lead to, a change of form in the conditions wliich 
will succeed them. 

But though no one particular change is aimed at, yet the general 
principle that where thcr(^ is sulTcring, there there is a desirability of 
change, is certainly strongly felt, by one of their authors at least; 
and it is hoped will be felt by the reader, and the more felt, perhaps, 
after the reading of these little pieces. And, furtlu;r, it is hoped 
reading them will helj) some to see more clearly how all hard-and- 
fast rules are bad masters ; though rules are good servants, and even 
liard-and-fast rules, uj) to a (tcrtain point; if that ])()int is one never 
to be reached, improvement, easing of the legally pinching shoe, the 
binding withe, the pressing weight, is never to be reached. If law 
is something received, external, atid not evolved out of the divinity 
of man's highest aspirations after worthiness— worthiness of methods, 
of methods for securing the happiness of men and of their neighbors 
as themselves — then laws are hard-and-fast, and im])rovement of 
man's estate stops. I'ut if rules are followed until a still more satis- 
factory rule is found and deliberately ado])ted by general consent, a 
constant imi>rovement in man's estate must follow. Day before yes- 
terday, by the waters of Jiabylon we sat down and wept ; yesterday 
in llama there was a voice heard, Rachel weeping for her children ; 
last night the Waldensesand the Albigenses suffered, the iires of the 
Inquisition burned, the torture chand)ersof Nuremberg only showed 
what went on in every European town ; toward morning the guillo- 
tine was erected; and so on; until to-day, at noon-day, American 
Indians cast a girl into the flames to j)rote('-t them from a dire pesti- 
lence which has fallen on the tribe ; the cannibalism, the eating of the 
little girl in llayti goes on, to placate, by hunuin sacrifice, the 
enemy of maidcind — as with the Druids of old, as with the ancients 
of perhaps all peoples, Jphigenia's, Isaac's — Jesus dies upon the 
cross, " a full, perfect, and sufiicient sacrifice " (horrible idea !), and 
the mass is celebrated, and the Anglican and American women go 
to the early celebration. In Russia, (Catholics are harried by the gov- 
ernment ecclesiastical system. And in (Jhiiia^ In ail dark coun- 



tries ? But for Englisli interference, the modern spirit, improve- 
ment, the Suttee in India ! How long, O Lord, how long will 
men prefer the flattery of their egotism in thinking that they hold 
the right — prefer it or some grosser gain — above every form of 
mercy ? 

" Let me with light and truth be blessed, 

Be these the guides to lead the way 

Till, as on Holy hill, I rest." 

Yet he who " would fain find Right, would fain shun Wrong," as on 
a holy hill walks every day. 

Yes, care must be taken. We must not do harm in seeking to 
do good. But this scarcely justifies us in refusing to study how harm 
may be avoided and good effected. 

If, in pursuing a general principle, one, " as one led by a w-ay " 
unsought for, finds, with surprise, much is being said that was never 
originally intended, and where there was no personal call to say any- 
thing (indeed, far otherwise), that must be taken as the chance fate 
of the moment, and because Religious Freedom is already established 
in most parts of the world, and these, those generally called the most 
enlightened, political freedom is established in many of them, free- 
dom of trade in some of them, and so on ; while again what ".withes 
that bind " the future will seek to loosen, is still the secret of the 
future. Armies may disband, swords be beaten into pruning-hooks, 
antique ideals be fulfilled. The fact that those ideals exist, is indeed 
a sort of promise of their fulfilment. Man will not stop until his 
highest ideal is reached. And, with each eminence attained, new 
heights beyond will soar. To-day we see some hill, next beyond us, 
about, as it were, to melt away, surmounted by the onward tread of 
tlie race. But what name the hill bears, only in a secondary way at 
all interests me. What interests me is the progress of mankind, a 
progress which makes the tears by the waters of Babylon, the weep- 
ing voice in Rama, the anguishes of the past — past. Past and never 
to return — as far as we can see. 

After progression, retrogression ? After gradation, degradation ? 
Well, that is a long way off, we hope. The higher we go now, tlie 
further off. Yes, " the hopeless vulgarity of the human race " will 
press close upon, and trip up the heels of, almost all progress — if we 
are not on our guard, we and those to come after us. 

A LooKER-oN IN Vienna. 



PRELUDE. 

Backward and forward swings 
the pendulum, the soul. 

Is it the soul of the past and the distant, 
Civilizations, cities, types, 
Great deeds, words, things exceptional, 
fair, quaint, or mysterious, 
Such as aye are portrayed by great masks, 
And the crowd of the maskers behind them, 
from our day to Job ; or is 't only 
the soul of but everyday lives 
in our vanishing moment of time ? 

With all, great and small. 
Of it conscious, unconscious, 
Still backward and forward, 

Backward and forward. 

The pendulum swings. 

Is it the soul of the disappointed 

but not faithless wife, 

in the dull old Quaker-settled 
• prairie town, following in 

imagination her only 

" twice-seen " artist lover 

through far lands ; yet putting 

herself in his place, herself — 

who older, not so fair nor gifted, 

would be forever faithful ? 

Or is it the soul of the wandering 

liirht-hearted but not faithless husband, 

CD ^ 

recalling the pretty, gentle, 
type-writer, so unconventional 
but so confiding and innocent % 

Or is it the soul of the devot^ 
seen when on the j)ilgrimage, 
so faith-bound yet passionate % 



Or is it the soul of the clergyman, 
travelling with his little children 
and invalid wife — a soul 
beginning to expand a little ? 

Or is it the soul of the constant 
inconstant husband, forever 
swinging back to the perfect wife r 

Or is it the soul of the dreaming 
moralist, picturing the vanity 
of every conception of unbi'idled pleasure ? 

Or but some idealist's visions, material 
and mental and spiritual ? 

Or is the pendulum swinging, 
as from hand to hand, across 
the stained table and half-emptied 
cups of the garrulous gaffers ? 

Or is it from youth to age the 

]>endulum swings ? 
Or from pleasures to pains ? 
Or from griefs turned to blessings ? 

Or swings it but over the flow'rets, 

bay-bloom and iris commingled i 
Or through perfume of far-off acacias 

that over some river comes wafted ? 
Or nigh-iiuttering wings of the lovers, 

the night-moths that entered my chamber? 
Or where painted shells murmur tales 

of all climes and all races of beings ? 
Or only through mist, from the smoke 

of the lamps when the flowers have faded. 
Or marks it your beatings, old friend, 

soon to still, I mistake for a message ? 
Or tells it each heart's ardent need 

of renouncement, devotion, adoring ? 



'Twixt believing and doubting, 
'Tvvixt gaining and losing, 
'Twixt shunning and loving, 
'Twixt wounds and 'twixt blessing-s, 
'Twixt dreaming and waking, 
'Twixt sight and unseeing, 
Who shall praise? who shall blame ( 
Who shall doubt or affirm ? 

In silence, in singing. 
Slow plodding, onwinging. 
Not caring, or weighing. 
Desponding, or hoping. 
What e'er the soul's choosing 
(Not choosing, or choosing,) — 
Our part with the blessed 
The best part of life lost. 
The truth conscience whispers, 
As seed 'neatli the harrow 
Our all a last offering : 
Not our way, the best way,— 
In whatever system 
Past, present, or future, 
As gainer, or victim, 
Not seeing, or seeing. 
Portraying, forgetting. 
Affirming, or doubting, 
All blessings still seeking, 
Passeth man's life 
As a perfume, a vapor, 
A thistledown floating 
Throughsunlight and shadow, 
While backward and forward, 

Backward and forward. 
The pendulum swings 
Till the summer is over. 



AGRALAIDE. 



LUKE 7 : 4? 



By R. A. E. 



AGMLAIDE. 



SUBMISSION. 

When the hours of day are passed, 

And my work is laid aside, 

Aod I watch a fading west 

Where late the cloads were purple dyed, 

Oft I ask where can he be, 

And I wonder wistfully; 

Wonder, wonder, wistfully, 

Wondering ever —asking never 

Does he ever think of me ? 

Often in the silent night. 
One beside me wrapt in sleep, 
One sunk back from my embrace, 
Sunk back into slumbers deep, 
I look out across the dark, 
As across a waveless sea. 
Wondering where he may be; 
Wond 'ring more, yet asking ne'er 
Does he ever think of me ? 

O, thou sweet and sweet and dear I 
Be thou far or be thou near, 
Thine the smile and mine the tear. 

Thine the joy of finding love 
Where it pleaseth thee to rove, 
Like a flower in a grove. 

Mme to bear the flowret's tear, 
Mine the pain of loving— Dear, 
Pardon ! Ah, he cannot hear. 

'Ihine the right, and mine the righting ; 
Thine the love, and mine the loving ; 
Thine the ^il■t, and mine the giving. 

Hush I I through the darkness trace, 
Soft ! Each feature of thy face, 
Faint and misty, far away. 

Dark thine eyes and soft and sweet, 
Through the darkness, mine they greet, 
Grave and tender, as Ihou sweet. 

Underneath the parted shade 
That hides the heaven of thy mouth 
Ambush zephyrs of ihe south. 

O'er the clear pale of thy cheek, 
So soft and cool, with flying feet 
A little blush plays hide and seek , 



While my words of passion tell 
Of thti ti uth bid iu the well 
Into which tiiine image fell, 

Yet thou hearing art so still, 
That I love thee 'gainst my will, 
Thou it wili'st not, willing still . 

Sweet, in being thou art best, 
Thou art perfectest in rest; 
Let my fancy thee invest 

With each virtue ever known — 
Lacking all, thou bast this one, 
Thou hast made me all thine own. 

Bad or g<iod, I know but this, 
In my lite's-iime perfect bliss 
I have known but once — thy kiss. 

Faintly, faintly through the night, 
Fades thine image out of sight. 
Faint come streaks of morning light. 

O, my love ! In my embrace, 
Let the balm of thy dear face 
Wrong of wasted life efface. 

Gone ! So best ; I called thee not, 

I strive rather thee to blot 

From my breast, full tried, God wot. 

So I close my eyes to rest. 
Lost in sleep my weary breast^' 
[In my dreams I see thee best.] 



HALF A YEAR. 



Half a year, oh 1 my dear lost love, 

Half a year since first I saw thee, 

Since thou dawn'st, sweet star, making all light 

A soul I knew not before was dark. 

Half a year, sweet, since, like islands perfume 

freighted, 
Sailing on southern seas, we drifted near 
—Oh ! my God — nearer, nearer 1 
Love we never spoke, and kissed. 
But my yielding eyes, startled, wondering, uncon- 
scious, 
For an instant seemed to ask, and thou reassuring, 
answered, " Only to be near each other ! '' 
Sweet, all through life for those words 
I pray God's blessing on thee; 
On thy going out and coming in. 
On thee wholly and forever. 
Sweet, if we escaped then, I know not what of sin; 
Sweet, if we sinned then, in that second in I know - 

not what ; 
Sweet, though like barges that drift upon the tide. 
We parted in the moment that we met, meeting 

were sundered 
Not the less all the pain of life was in that instant 

paid. 
Even sin condemning God, through an eternity of 

pain, 

To punish this, me knowing wherefore I am pun- 
ished. 

Must leave me memory of my sin, if it be sin. 

So leave me bliss, in the memory of my bhss. 

1 cannot \yholly wretched be again ; I have one in- 
stant lived ; 

Henceforth I cannot know that living death which 
means death but to joy. 

No future night will be so dark one ray of pure 
light will not reach through it. 

Fav'^well, my love, my love, still my love, though 
I never see thee more in this life ; 

This life ? Is there another where I shall see thee 
m joy or pain ? 

Dear, hell would not be wholly hell with thee un- 
changed; 

Thee changed, and heaven itself would not be 

heaven. 
Farewell, sweet love! Half a yt-ar of swift, lost 

life. 
Since fate gave new revelation of the worth of life ! 
Half a year, and in all that time, only twice love, 
Only twice thy lips were mine \ only twice, twin 

flowers of life ! 
Must life go on, half years be years, and years be 

life, 
And like the aloe, flowering only once m all its life 
I know no future joy but memory of past bliss ? 



IN THE NIGHT WHEN THE HOUSE IS 
HUSHED. 



In tlio night when the liouso in huwlied 

And all is si.ill but my soul, 

It gt)OH forth to wing its way over the strnets and 

lanoH, 
OvM' the firlds and woods. 
Over places whore at midnight great forges flame, 

and through the night toil' is; 
Over the remnant of the land, 
Over the trackless waste of waves, 
Over the full sailed ships, like dim fair birds in the 

darkness below; 
Or the steamer, with its many tiny points oi light, 

teeming with human beings, 
Each with its concentrated interestH, is overtaken, 

felt, so close at hand, and pansed, 
[Are those specks open boats of wrecked mon far 

from any land ?] 
Ov(T cities, harbors of sin, 
Ov(*r prairies silent under the moon, 
Over rolling plains, Indian bandn o'er-roven, and by 

herds of wild animals; 
By grottos of hidden gold in ravines of and moun- 
tains where few men have ever been; 
By verdant vales with wondrons growths. 
By all, by all, oh! my lovo, bctwo.u mo and thee; 
Thee, thy lips so weet in dreams, 
Thy tender breast, thy gently encircling arms, 
Tliecl my goal, my .shore, my abuling city, 
Perhaps thon hast forgotten me, or even di'ivest mo 

mure ihun indillerent from thy tlionghts; 
Thou carest not lor mt ; could I r(;ally meet thee 

thou mightest not care to be kmd. 
Dear lovo, in my thouglit thou art ever gentle as of 

yore, 
O, my love, thou art stxlll O, God, art all my lovo. 

Farewell beloved, till the starry hours 
Which steep tlie world in sleep, say to my soul, 
Behold agam the hours when thy soul may seek, 
And linding, lold its happy tired wings 
Upou his perfumed breast. 



THROUGH THE CROWDED STREETS. 



Through the crowded streets I go; 

All alone I seem — a stranger in the grout city, and 

strange, 
Far from home, from friendly greeting, native 

speech ; 
Yet there is one ever beside me. 
Behold the piles of wealth and art ! 
I whisper to him all my thought. 
I lose him in the hurrying rush and danger; 
A moment only, now he is by my side again^ silent, 

sweet invisible. 
His hand slips into my hand, 
My closing fingers touch his so dear palm, 
His arm rests soft in mine. 
All down my side is felt his gentle presence; 
He returns a thousand and a thousand times, 
And, in tender pity for my loss of him he images, 
Is his image present, invisible, and ever faithfal. 



UNTO THE SPLENDID CAPITAL. 

Unto the splendid capital of sin 

I pilgrim came as to a sacred shrine. 

They who seek shrines seek rest of soul, 

To lay some burden down ot sin or care, 

To find some talisman 'gainst future pain, 

And seeking, tribute pay in faith and praise. 

So mine like praise, since mine like faith, 

I sought there talisman to cure 

Love's wasting fever in my heart. 

To lay some burthen down — nepenthe find, 

Forgetfulness of one too dear ! 

Ah! vaia essay! behind soft eyes thine softer shone. 

No lips are dear but thine in all the world 

Who won my kiss won not 'twas given to thee. 

Since I am wholly thine, or what or where I am, 

And thou imperial o'er my soul, cruel or kind 

I will not struggle more in vain emprise 

Striking ajar the music of my thought 

But patient take my sad sweet burden up. 

And never hope to lay it down again, 

Well paid by one short hour of bliss 

For an eternity of pain. 



HIS NAME IN FLOWERS. 
I. 

Oh 1 sweet Agral ! Here let me write tliy name, 

In cluiractors of flowers, 
As thovj as fair as perishable. 

ir. 

I said not characters oi' li.:;ht , 
The brilliant deed entlironed of fame, 
The high achievement winning men's applause. 
These are not thine or ^eV will be, 
Oh I bay flower of the wild sweet wood 
Born but to be not do, 
But being to be being wholly beautiful, 
So I do fitly write thy name in flowers. 

III. 

I said not characters of flame. 

The lofty sacrifice, the burning zeal 

The priceless consecration unreserved to high 

ideal, 
These not thy part, yet God made thee, 
And made thee perfect lor assigned part 
As whose ensample might have power 
To change the faith of worlds ; 
So full of tender reverence 
I write thy name in flowers not flames. 

IV. 

Oh ! that 1 had Horatio's pen 

To write thee fitly fair, 
A monument as bronze enduring; 

Oh 1 tliat I had a tongue of fire 
To sing thy sweet completeness in a song 
As flowers all fair, far-reaching as the light, 
And burning with my love's undying flame. 

V. 

The fairest flowers, and thy completeness, and 

these lines 

Haste each to perish soonest. 
Yet as arbutus blooms breath sweet 
Beneath last year's dead leaves, 
So I would have that fair that sings of thee ; 
Although they never struggle to the light, 
Or 'neath the waste of interests ot the hour 
Are born to be forgot, yet sweet Agral, 
Though no eye see these lines thou art their 

theme. 
So I would have them fair as flowers and light 

and flames. 



VI. 

Can tliey bo else than (air Hpniiijj; from my love 

and tlioo ? 
Could lliy rare beauty's (>irs[)iin<;- bo not bouuti- 

lul. ■ 
Or love like mine find utterance not fair ? 
Alas I love makeH not fair, else had I boon 
To thee as thou to me. So come dear flowers 
For ye are fair, all I ye are fair, 
And weave my darling-'s coronal. 

VII. 

Dear love, when I would (Itly write 

Thy darling name in flowers, 
Beinj^s like thee, l)()rn to be beautiful, 
And so in being best — for beauty prized 
Not ined'eiiie worlh — what flowers my choice? 
What, I'oses damacen'j can breath thy sweet, 
What lotus dreaming on the golden Nile 
Can match thy i)tn-fumed calm? 

vm. 

Not daffodils, nor oghuitino, iris, nor violets 

meseom thy flowers, 
Nor hair-bell's grace, nor yucca's Btateliness, 
Nor tulij)'s pride, nor daisy's modesty, 
Nor lily of the valley's purity, 
Nor homely hawthorne l)looming fair 
In Englisii hedges in the; spring, 
Nor i)urpl(' liliic's \vealth of perfumed plumes, 
Nor a[)ple blossoms, ah ! oneJVIiiy so dear. 
— But jasmine, and ca-))e jessamine, 
Egyptian lotus and the (hiphnia's bloom, 
Wax flowers, bay flowers, all magnolia blooms, 
— Those most that mid tlieir crowns of green 
So smooth and cool, lift milky chalices 
With odors over-ruiuiing to the sun 
Througli all the pathless [)ineysouthern woods — 
These seem like thee and thou like those, 
Lancastrian roses twined between. 

JX. 

Then let me, leaving still unrobbed 

The lily crown that hound the brows 

Worthy to win imperial love. 

One petal take t(t lay on thine 

From brows that bound all perfectness 

In one sweet bundle. Love, though thou 

Could'st not give life for thy beloved 

More than I could imperial be, 

I did not love thee for thy nobleness — 

I said not characters of light. 



X, 

oil ! come dear flowers and bring your perfectest 
To bind his brows that doth outperfect your per- 
fection. 
Pay him the homage which is just, 
Since ye arc fair be second to his ftiiror. 
Come sweetest buds and weave his coronal 
Whom I did meet in his sweet manhood's 
fiiirest prime, 
Its perfect hour, 
E'eifhis dear budding time had passed utterly. 
Come fair coroUas in your hour supreme, 
Come in love's moment all divine, 
Your beauties all disclosing. 
Your sweetest sweets distilling, 
Your hour of perfumed joy, 
Yet 'ere your rounded lines have lost 
All sweet suggestion of your gracious budding 
time. 

XI. 

[Oil ! hour divine ! 

Ob ! hall-blown rose of life ! 
What Ibrni so marred but thou hast glorified, 
What life so mean but thou hast sanctified? 
Oh half blown I'ose of life 
Love's hour divine. 
Come lay thy ch^dice close to mine 
That I may drink thy sweetness and become 

As fair as thou ! 
So — cup to cup, so — lip to lip ; 
Now is thy rose come crimson in my veins, 
I glow with beauty in thy beauty's glow. 
Deepening th}' tints in passionate response — 
Thy sweet my sweeter answers more intoxicate 
So that thou almost diest in my arms 
The while I faint in thine. 

[Who saw me grief-struck, marred and beautiless, 
And bent down o'er me as a princess o'er a king, 
And Avon me back to beauty in his tender arms ?] 
Lo ! When I meet one in that hour divine 
I die before him as a lamp goes out 
Before the throne of God. 
Oh ! Light cne-flable lliat ^liiuvs foi- nx; 
Why should I shame that I am that thou mad'st? 
I can not tell whence comes or goes that force 

divine 
Divine! I only knew it that it masters mine.] 



./ 



As 1 came down the terraced stairs 
That scale the Pincio to the Trinita, 
And, pausing- 'gainst the bahistrade, 
Look'd far toward the wondrous dome 
Ruling the Roman night, 
I heard a voice so still, so near. 
Where no one was, that answered mine, 
I heard the voice of him I loved 
Afar beyond the sea — 



So still, so near, so sweet, so far 1 

The years have gone, but still I hear 
The quiet sweetness of that word 
In the still Roman night. 
The sweetness hear, but can not tell 
The word, if 'ere I knew. 
I sometimes think that so the scene 
Is symbol of my life. 
Afar from thine my lot is cast- 
Afar in thought^ in hopes, in cares,— 
The rolling leagues of space between 
Dividmg least. 

Fate's purpose when thy life edged mine 
'Tis as a half caught word — one word — 
Whose meaning I shall never know, 
But whose sweet music, stillest in stillest night 
Is ever with me. And these lines 
Are half-caught echoes of that music — meaning 

what they may — 
Music that still comes back as life speeds on 
Far from the past and thee. 

Lo ! I have named the flowers that spell thy 

name, yet know 
These lines arc flowers, such as the fates have 

willed. 
Sprung from the plant thou bad'st to bloom 
Nor bidding knew thou bad'st. 
This book the withe that binds them 
They who read, if any e'er, 
And disentwine them, they shall here 
Thy name emburied find, my sweet Agral 
And writ in flowers. 



LAST NIGHT I LAY UPON MY BED. 

LaBt nif^ht I lay upon iny bod 

And prayed to"Jos\i 'ere I went to sleep, 

And in that moment elevate, 

Of fiuth supreme, aoceptive, .'•elf-nogato, 

As mists that ])avt and Umivo the rock revealed 

The tissue ])artcd of old pr(\judi(^e, 

Notions of nature nature gives the lie to every- 
day, 
Utterings of them tliat drea-m, and dream 
The odhoesof thoir dreams (Jod's law, 
Cn^ated and uiniatuval shame— a shame 
Offsi)ring of wliat is artificial, so a shame 
God's other creatures, nature's children, never 
know, — 
A tissue shot with fears : first, of man's scorn, 
Despisino- what lio knows not therefore scorns, 
Then penalties enact of them would liido 
Thc^mselves are forfeit to the laws tliey made, 
Then f(!ar of dread hereafter and (Jod's wrath 
' Because they wer(i tlie creatures that he made, 

AU parted, HlvC a vesture overworn, 
And fi'om afar, 
Yet seen so near 
In the sweet light of ])rayer, 
The truth eternal standing there 
Look'd back— looked dtuip into my eyes 
And wou'd be known. 



ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT THE SOFT 
SOUTH WESTERN WIND. 

All through tho night tho soft south western wind 
Brf>athe(T from i\w soa, 
And ivt my opened lattice bars, 
Beating Avith wliispors Hoft and wakening me, 
Called nie, from dreams of thee, to thee 
Oh ! new found love, to thee I 

Lo ! as sonui full sailed argosy 

Freighted with echoes from the land of dreams 

I floated back to sense, 
Through the sweet portals of half consciousness. 

A wondering sense of joy and love 

And peace iillcd all tlie room, 
A joy I woke to, still part echo of past joy, 
And circling, nestl(!d fluttering down upon my 
breast. 

I could not rest 
But through the darkness stole, and longing, happy, 
Lean'd out to the night. 

Far below the drifting light 

Show(Hl where the d(;ep laid barges moved 

That ll<)at(!d on the niknit tide 
The stilln(!ss made more still with whispering leaves. 
The far-olT bi'cuth of ferns, tho sense impalpable 
Of purity delicious of the night amidst the hills. 
The sotting stars, and love, love come at last 

After so many years. 

In the long day which followed, 
After the night divine though night alone, 
I read his sonnets in the rose-hung porch 
Who sang a love like mine, 
Yet ever lltful starting back 
To seek through rooms deserted for the love I knew 
was far away. 

It was a Siinday, all the world at rest. 

And in my iK^art loves llowret bloomed 
To leave me restless ever more. 

How strange my dual life that day, 

Each questioner answering, seeming custom's 

self, 
Yet every present moment absent with my love. 

In the late afternoon we wandered through the 
shaded \nnvH to (Oiurch. 

How short the sermon seemed, the old pri(!st eloquent 

And when they sang Magnificat, dear (Jod, forgiye 
If love took up ilie sacred strain. 
The organ and my voice in unison. 

Till the quaint rafters rang with melody. 

Oh ! night and day divine, all sweet. 
The wliole of life till thee led up to thee, 
Th9 whole of life since thee thy memory. 



OF FREE WILL. 

AGKAL. 

(Recallings.) 

Out of the dark and the turmoil I found thee, 

Out of the smoke and the clangor and din. 
And you coming, all changed to me. Silent an iris 
Her lilies leans tow'rd thee, as over still waters. 
All changes. A perfume of flowerets breathes 'round me, 
A perfume of flow'rets breathes round me and stills me, 
And in thy repose, as one wrapt, lost, an iris, 
Bv the margin of waters, beholds thee as moonlight 
Asleep on the flow'rs, or the first star of ev'ning. 
Or where in the moonlight two white doves are sleeping, 

(Stiller thyself in thy stillness than sleeping) 
Beheld thee and yielded, thee follow'd with perfumes, 

Lean'd tow'rd thee, half touch'd thee, and O, o'er the waters, 
The waters between us,' would draw thee, adorinsr. 

You saw me. You lov'd me ? I know not. You took me ; 
In your bosom did fold me. 1 rest there encrowned. 
Your love than all crowns, fame, or fortune, is sweeter. 
More worth, more ennobling, more staying, more stilling. 

Lean over the waters your chalice of silver 

lotus, O lily, O bay flower emperfumed, 
Lean over the waters, O monarch, and bind me. 

You bid me, you bind me, breathe on me, and bind me ; 

1 die, in twice living ; I cease, in beginning ; 
Life opens, in yielding ray life unto thine. 

You crown, in discrowning me ; bless, in destroying me ; 

Make, in unmaking me ; free me, in binding me. 

Lo ! I all abdicate, yield all my prized most ; 

Find in my conqueror all my re\varding, 
And sink in the arms of that conqu'ror adoring. 
All yielding, all finding, all Icarn'd, all forgetting. 



conqueror all conquering, the bay leaves are calling, 
The flag leaves of sweetness are calling and trembling. 

Is night gone ? Is't morning ? The song birds of morning 
Call us and call us. 

You heed not ? I heed not. 

1 follow your motions. I still me when you are still. 
Lo, I am wedded. I lose power of motion. 

(Self will was priz'd once. How strange ! I no will have now.) 
Sing softly sweet songsters. Hush, waken no lovers. 

By the margin of waters, cool waters, a marriage 
Hath someone befallen, and someone is blessed now, 

Someone is blessed now, . . . blessed now, . . . 
blessed. 

Soft and more softly as morning advances 
Dies the song into silence, a silence unending, 
Sweeter than song, and to end never more. 

Lo, now the iris blooms sweet all the waters by» 

Nay not as yesterday, nay not as yesterday. 

Why not as yesterday ? Why not as yesterday ? 
O purple petals, as frail in the wind now 

As ever, yet sweetened thy perfume with perfumes 
Borne from his lips, even borne to thine inmost heart, 

(I bear in my bosom his likeness, his perfume ; 

I bear in my bosom his likeness, his sweetest self. 
Soft ! Are they singing still ? Is it that morning ?) 
O purple petals, so frail in the wind there, 

Unfolding so free, though so frail, so uncaring. 
There, by the waters, sang you as larks sing, — 
Sang you as bob-o'-links in the June meadows. 
There, where they swing on the grass ere the mowing. 
There, where they swing on the grain ere its ripening. 
Pour forth their song, full of joy, free of thought or care, 
Full of joy in so living, in filling their metier. 

Joyous and passionless, (painless their passions all), — 
There, by the waters, sang you as larks sing, 
Sang you as bob-o'-links in the June meadows. 



Sing you as nightingales now in the evening ; 

Press 'gainst the thorn, the sweet thorn, your breast's aching ; 

Sing of love's sting, love's awak'ning and crowning ; 

Sing of love's sting; and so sing evermore. 

Still, still the iris blooms, blooms by sweet waters there, 
By the same waters blooms, blooms there as yesterday, 
Opens its petals so frail in the wind there,— 
But not as yesterday, nc'ermore as yesterday. 

Hude stalk and sword-like leaves, breaking when least weights 
press, 

Mystery of tints of the heart of the flower, 
O pistils and stamens, and ])etals uneven 
Yet rhythmic, set symbols of triads, O Iris, 
Discrowned forever and now ever crowned ! 

lie lean'd neath the stars in the dark 'cross the water 

And breathed on the chalice. The chalice bent tow'rds him. 

Its lips, yielding, longing, emperf umed, he perfumes. 

Behold me. Consign to me. 

Love's crown assign to me. 
His chosen ! His servant ! His liv'ry now bind on me. 
O, best gift of life, life half over, assign' d to me ! 
Love hath found me, and crown'd me, and, joy of all, bound me. 

O self-willing, priz'd once, I'm rich finding quits of thee. 
Who was so frail, blooming free by the water side ? 
Strong of root, rude of stalk, frail of petal, an iris ? 
(Frail of petal, an iris ; frail, frail, an iris !) 



THE SOLDAN. 

An eastern Soldan had a favorite slave 

He bound abont with gems and with his royal love. 

And full of gratitude she lived content, 

Until one sad sweet day strange fate, 

Thiit ever toys with human griefs and joys, 

Embrasure made in custom's wall 

That hedges Indian wives — she saw, and loved, 

Was seen, beloved — more blest than I. 

Some stolen interchange, wordless but love translate 

A signal and a silken rope, 

Flight and discovery, and then fierce jDursuit. 

O'ertaken on a river's bank 

Lashed by a swollen flood, 

Escape cut off — the neariug horsemen from afar 

Shouted their soldan's word of grace, 

Forgiveness, and return. 

Return is parted life. 

Sweeter is death with love ; 

Each took one long dear look, 

Then plunged into tlu; flo'd, 

And perished in the other's arms. 

Later ihe tired, snted waves 

Laid soft the lovers' forms on stream-lapped strand, 

Bruised and stripped, but beautiful in death, 

And in that last embrace still locked. 

And there the noble Soldan raised 

A splendid fane, set fair with lazuli, 

And rich with traceries of eastern art, 

And graved it with the story of their fate, 

So that there might not perish from the earth, 

The memory of so much love ; 

And wrote these words upon the crowning stone 

" Soldan the mighty unto love supreme.'' 



IN ITALY. 

When I see these golden hills, 
All their sweetness knowing, 

When their strange wild perfume fills 
All my senses softly blowing 

From the terraces of vines, 

When these ancient rocks the sun 
Crimsons 'ere the day is done, — 
Topaz, ruby, amethyst, 
Sweetest hues like lover's tryst 
Given and taken, — 
Loved, forsaken. 

My heart goes back across the sea. 

Sweetest of all sweets to n-ve 

Could I wander them w^ith thee 
Sweeter sweet these hills would be. 



When through olive boughs the sky 
Azure depths revealing, 

Watching dreamily I lie, 

While faint sounds of life come stealing 

From the valley far below. 

When beneath the o'er-reaching shade 
Afar flash crysop, turquoise, jade, 
Where as azure waves break white 
On a shore of gold, hues bright 
Given and taken, 
Loved, forsaken, 

My heart goes back across the sea. 

Gem of gems could'st thou with me 

Watch this sky aud flashing sea, 

Sea and sky would brighter be. 



When the city of a dream, 

Throned on emeralds, drifting, 

Floats upon the silver sheen. 

All her misty domes u[)lifting 

Through the silence of the night, 
When her torches flame afar. 
And is borne upon the air 
Sovinds of music, where no feet 
'Ere have echoed through a street, 
Oh, love waken ! 
Thee forsaken 

What are dreams of light to me ? 

Music is not without thee I 

Dreams of light and music be 

In thine arms beyond the sea. 



Way-worn in some house of prayer 

At the day's close kneeling, 
Though the crucifix is there. 

Present help, a thought comes stealing 
Of thee love so far away. 

So I close my book of prayer, 

For I see but thy name there, 

And I cry, oh ! make of me 

What thou would'st, Lord, I should be ! 
Truth o'ertaken 
I awaken. 
Tears of joy break forth from mo 1 
Thy life my love are purity, 
And through all eternity 
God smiles on my love for thee. 

FINIS. 



SUITE : THE EGLANTINE. 

I. Unfolding. 

II. To Itself, 

III. To ITS Lover. 

IV. On the Mountain Side. 

V. In the City. 

VI. June. 
Vn. Reason. 

VIII. Couplets. 

IX. Lines in a Little Girl's Alhum. 

X. In tub Air, Sometimes. 



I. 

THE E G L A N TT N E . 

As I passed tlirougli the wild wooded patliway, 
I, with a crowd of the elegant, 
Came we on eglantine roses, 
There in a shaded place blooming . 
Who else remarked them 1 know not, 
I though, remarked them, and softly 
Smiled to myself, for 1 minded 
One who to me was known only, 
One who for me was then waiting. 
One Avho from many companions 
Me gently chose, and had waited 
Oft in a shadowed place for me ; 
Waited that we two might wander 
Aimless, but happy together. 
Talking, or silent, together, 
Leaving the crowded streets never 
'Till it grew late, and then parting 
With but a hand's pressure only ; 
Knowing not even each other 
By name, or if ever each other 

We lost, how to find one another ; 

Oneof a singular beauty, 
Whose lips were like eglantine petals, 
And whose hair from her forehead all golden 
Fell back like its clustering stamens ; 
Tall and of elegant build, 
Beautifully formed and yet slender, 
Gracious in carriage and proud. 
Serious, full of refinement. 
And so like an eglantine rose 
That, at sight of its namesake, 1 whispered, 
Smiling and silent and happy : 



I have an eglantine rose 
Waiting- for me as its lover, 
Waiting for me in its beauty, 
In its sweet budding perfection ; 
Mine its pink petals, its stamens, 
Its delicate perfume, its summer, 
Mine tlie sweet joy of possession, 

And the hope of the coming hereafter ; 

And for me it is waiting, is waiting. 
for me, for me, it is waiting. 

And thence forward the way was all sweeter, 

Life with its sorrows made happier, 
And they that walked with me were fairer. 
And they that walked with me were hapi)i('r, 
Sliaring my mood, but not dreaming what caused it. 

Ah, my dear eglantine rose, 
Sweet is to-day. And to-morrow ? 
Nay, I will pray and not borrow ; 
Thine be the thorn, mine the sorrow. 



IT. 
THE EGLANTINE TO ITSELF. 

A Blossom. 

" Seek not i'ov lovers more tlian tliis ; 

Thoii couldK't not, iCtlion wonld'st, increase the Miss 

That now attends thee, E,i;'lantiiie. 

Unnoticed by the way-side, and ukMic, 

Thine was a life of waiting. C;une 

At last this dear one with a lover's claim. 

And took thee home and gave thee rest. 

There, in love's arms of snowy white, 

Loving, tender, passionate. 

Pillowed upon that faithful breast. 

Be thou content from all the rest 

To separate, and dream on thus forever." 



in. 

THE EGLANTINE TO ITS LOVER. 

A Blossom. 

" 'Till first \vc met, within iny heart 
There was an achiii}^' void unfilled : 
But, by thy ina2,"ie ])o\ver t' impart 
Command, its wild nnrest is stilled. 
love me with a IVieiidshi]) pnre, 
That shall thi-oni;-li darkest honrs al)id( 
Thron;^-h every trial of" hiith endure ; 
lie then ininci always, till the tide 
01' lite is at its ebb, and we 
Lauuchtd forth into eternity." 



lY. 
TIIR EGLANTINE ON TPIE MOUNTAIN SIDE. 

A Rlosaom. 

1 wnti'luul at iii!;-lit with the cliaiToal burners 

Close liy the ir smouldering- fires. 
They were rarinin's' sons from the vaHey below, 

And watched well their smouUbM-ini;- fires. 
And anion,!;- them werci lovers. Hush ! sol'tly the ni,!;-ht wiii<l 

Famiinm- the smouhlerini;- (ires, 
Kisses the lovers there. 1 had a lover there, 

There by the smouldering,- fires, 
And my lover and I watched faithfully, wakefully. 
Under the solemn stars, faithfully, wakefully, 

Night long the smouldering- fires. 



IN THE CITY. 

[JTINE IS SWIFTLY PASSING.] 

I sfiw you to-day, to-day on the prado, 

But you wcro in cloud land fair, evidently, 

And did not perceive the poor little mortal 

Whose lieart to her throat leap'd at si^lit (if Ikt io\cd one. 

I dared not to speak to you, dear one, so near me, 

Nor scarce dared to look toward the one I so loved ; 

Ah 1 dared not. r>ut oii ! by my lu^art's bcatini:;, tlirohhin;^, 

T know, I can swear : still the eglantine lives. 



VI. 

JUNE. 

Soon, all ! too soon the unnumbered days, 
Flying- with roseate i'eet their ways, 
Leave us. The dark month longest stays : 
The sweetest month is still the shortest. 

In .Time the Eglantine alone 

May bloom, alas ! When June is do?ie, 

For other flowrets smiles the sun. 

Farewell, sweet June, of months the sliortest. 



VII. 

REASON. 

Yon number of eac]i month tlie days-, 
And say, June 'tis not shortest stays. 
I 1 know, dear ; you are right always ; 

For you, no month wounds, none is shortest. 

But eghmtines bloom in but one. 
0, when thy light is gone, my sun, 
My June is o'er, my summer done : 

My one sweet month has been my shortest. 



viri. 

SWEET IMPRESSIONS ARE THE LONGEST 
LASTJNG. 

Few are the days to which 'tis given to trace 
Lines which the coming years will not eftace. 

Many the years whose whole united power, 
Graves not a line so deep as one short hour. 

Pass swift the years, and as a wave washed strand 
Not e'en a foot [)rint leave they on the sand. 

Yet, still beyond them, haply looking back, 
Where one sweet hour or moment left a track, 
See we the mark each time we turn about .... 
These are the marks we would not have washed out. 



/ 



IX. 
SWEET YEARS AWAY. 

[On scciiiff an Eglantine rose in a little girl's album. 

Sweet years away, 
One suuuner's day, 
Across my way, 
A sIimhK'I- s[)ra,y 
01" wild rose f^laiitiiu\ 

Eate li!j,litly drifted. 

Scarce iiiiiu^ tlie ilower 
One smniiier liotir, 
Yet, (all ! love's power \) 
Now every Ilower 
Ot wild rose ey;laiitine 

Willi spell is -iltcd. 

" shadows dewse, 
Carc^, ^"rief, olfense, 
Spnrti imiocH'uco ; 
Stay aye far lieiico !'' 
Wiris[)ers mine ej;d;intino : 

Lo ! clouds are rifted, 

And T a care 
With aiij^-ids share, 
And on the air 
A si^'h ol" i)rayer, 
Born ol an ei;laiitine, 

To Heaven is lifted. 



X. 

IN THE AIR SOMETIMES TOWARDS 

EVENING. 

In the air, somclii)ics, toward oveniii.L;', 

111 the street, or in erowds, or wlieix' hastenini 

Some whither, lightly across me 

Falls a vai^'ue sense as of somethin^j; 

Fair, from the far past returning, 

Floating the air in about mo ; 

Delicate, gentle, aerial, 

Close by me, but like a melody 

Listened to long ago somewhere, 

Yet which escapes full recalling; 

Faint, evanescent, impalpable, 

As o'er the river comes wafted 

Borne on the airs of the evening 

Sometimes the breath of acacias 

Blooming in June, or of far off 

Orange groves blooming in winter. 

Always it charms, it surprises, 
Floats by, caresses, escapes me ; 
Then in a half woiidiM- leaves me. 
Then, haply just as 'tis passing 
Out of my mind as past guessing, 
Softly I find me, as years ago 
There in the wild wooded pathway, 
Smiling, and to myself gently, 
While on my way I pass musing, 
Whispering low : Eglantine ! 



[From Alessandio da Vamora.] 

THREE WINDS. 

[El devoto, loq.] 

I. 

THE EAST WIND. 

The wind is East ; desires dead ; 

I am enfranchis'd of a slavery. 

This is a day to die and be with God ; 

For love remains, but Janus-faced, love's changed. 

To-day love's face shines pure as those 
That dawn celestial from the golden doors 

The old monk painted long ago 
And dreamed he drew the answers to his prayers,— 

[Nor err'd ; save but by faith and prayer 
Came 'ere conception of such purity.] 

All day the clouds hang low. 
Past or not come the storm ; 
Through crowded streets I go 

As if alone ; 
Not one of all I meet can stir my heart. 
Still and superior and apart 

I yet see all ; 
Not condemning though I share not. 

Care not. 
Sympathize with not ; 
Appreciating, pitying, but as one afar, 
Untouch'd, unwounded, not myself concern'd. 
Yet with a tender gracious pity such as far angels liave, 

Sinless themselves, 
Accepting things ordain'd, and seeing sin as one 

Having its place. 

This is a day to judge of other men's misdeeds. 
My own so far away, 
(yalin, unprejudging, but, the light of reason clear ; 
All knowledge mine, hate, sympathy, with none. 
Not even my own knowledge or past deeds ; 



Knowing the threads linking all deeds to causes far remote ; 
Not repentant, not defending, seeing all the regrettable ; 
How far remote is life, midst life, to me, to-day ! 
Your eyes turn'd on me sin inviting, 
Seeking, longing, I behold 
As if turn'd I ask not where ; 
Yet knowing all ; pitying your unrest ; 
Thankful for my repose, my respite-like content. 

A sense elegiac possesses me. 

Like minor chords with all the wail, 
The discord, passion, discontent, left out. 
Passionless, pure, belonging to no day or time, 
I pass upon my way ; 
All ways alike to me to-day. 



II. 



THE CHAJSTGING WIND. 

The wind is changing. Oh, this restlessness ! 

Almost I dare to throw myself 

Off from the ramparts of fair fame, 
And herd with shadows in some quest unknown. 

Lo, hurry past me shadows dark. 
Heady to lead me where I dare not think ; 

I pressing on to get me clear 

The city's lights. More air, more air ! 
Yet here the night sky and the cooling wind. 
They cannot satisfy, they fan my flame. 

Shall I give up my best ? My best ! 

My best is this esteemed worst. 

— ^Is not this best, this worst esteem'd ? — 

And others ? Save, O Crucified, 

Oh, save ! . . . and crucify my life. 

Homeward I come, my heart still torn, 
Weary and worn out and forlorn, 
Each step I tread as on a thorn. 
Sleeps all the world ? I may not sleep. 



1 must to-night forc'd vigil keep, 
Dragging my limbs as up a weary steep, 
Using mine eyes as weary eyes that weep, 
That see, yet see nought ; oh, I may not sleep. 

E'en to disrobe I scarcely dare, 
Fearing vao-ue evil in God's world so fair. 
So, 'till nigh morning comes, and I fall there 

On pallet bare, lose foul and fair 

In the dead slumber of despair. 
In that strong slumber still wild fancy teems 
-Forbidding e'en the dreaming of sweet dreams. 



III. 



THE SOUTHWEST WIND. 

The southwest wind breathes soft and love returns 
From fairy islands in some far off sea. 

I hear the plash of waves along the strand, 
Of waves that break far out to sea and glide 
In foamy reaches up the silver sands, — 
Soft murmurs musical, from coral caves 
Where waves break chamber'd in the azure dark, 
And hist'ries are enact of strange despair. 
Whose echoes, lingering on in whisper'd tones. 
Are heard in painted shells from Indian seas. 

Now, from the waving groves of palm, a band 

Of Indian girls breaks fair, a-down the beach, 

With jewel'd anklets gleaming in the sun. 

The ripple of their laughter softly heard 

Comes borne upon the zephyrs, while they move 

In motion, mystic, rhythmic, unconfin'd, 

Down to the swelling sea. Soft breathes the wind ; 

The kissing ripples wet their dusky feet ; 

They beckon me. Soft breathes the southwest wind. 



Shall I ever see again 

Thy sweet presence, whoso dear absence 

In some hour of every day 

Present is to mo ? ah ! say, 

Shall I ever see again, 

E'er again those tender eyes, 

Giving mo a sweet surprise 

Every timo I saw their light ? 

Eyes, yo were not very bright, 

Large, nor lustrous : whence your power^ 

Seen but once, thus in some hour 

Of every day, to bring to mo, 

Sweet eyes, your tender memory ? 



''SWEETEST EYES WEKE EVER SEEN.' 



Long ago in Portugal 

Sang the Poet Camoens, 

Songs of love, and love's sweet pain, 

In the breast of Camoens, 

Lingering, prisoned in his song. 

Has thrilled the ages all along. 

And, of all his songs, I ween 

" Sweetest eyes were ever seen," 

Is the sweetest ; and I know 

Sweet were the eyes he named so : 

Yet, I wonder, would he own, 

Or not, thine sweeter, dear unknown ? 



TO AN UNKNOWN, 



Oh, sweetest, sweetest, dearest flower. 
Rest on my breast a single hour. 
Exhale thy sweetness there. 
For thou art passing fair, 
And I would be 
Lost in the bliss of breathing thee. 

Then let me dream I too am fair. 
That, in the bliss of bearing there 

So sweet a flower, 

I dream the hour 

As sweet to thee, 
Lost in the bliss of breathing me. 



CONFESSION, 



** Love me little, love me long ! " 
So it runs, the old-time song, 
And I sing it, but I know 
In my heart I long not so. 
No, I ask not for that rest ! 
Fling yourself upon my breast, 
Clasp me in your arms and cry, 
** 'Tisnot you want rest, 'tis I." 
Clasp me in your arms of fire, 
Glowing you with love's desire ; 
Melt my coldness in your flame, 
Let its fuel be my blame 
That I love not more, nor know 
I love most when seeming snow. 
Give me bliss by being blest. 
Give me rest by finding rest ; 
Let your head the livelong night 
Eest upon my bosom white, 
Feed on banks of lilies there. 
While I, like a cloud in air. 
Seem to float in azure space. 
Locked and lost in your embrace. 

But, if e'er a morrow bring 
Not the love in you I sing, 
If I lose you, let me not 
Know my loss ! be all forgot, 
While, oh ! fate, make thou of me 
liover's food perennially. 



LAW 



Earth caught the flying night 

And heldit in a long and sweet embrace : 

Then morn arose, dewy and beautiful ; 

Swift following like a burning lover came the Sun. 

His rays fell on the sleeping flower ; 

The flower, awakening, opened all his purple petals, 

And bared its perfumed bosom to its Lord. 

Then through the sunny air came her bee lover. 

And burying him deep in the flow'ret's honied cup. 

Drank deep the sweetness of its nectar-bearing breast. 

Behold ! I said, the law of Life — the law of God — 

In all my members, as in nature, striving, 

Calling to sweet obedience ! Vainly strove 

The Hebrew doctors of an ancient time 

To make that law God had not made, — 

To bind, as God's, laws not God-made. 

Bind as ye will, nature breaks through. 

All sweet unsufferance she proclaims God's law j 

And I obey — yield wise to fate, 

Mine through all time — my fate — my fate ! 



Ave\7ri<TTo<i. 

I LIE upon the drifted sand, 

The sea beats sadly on the strand, 

Thy love is like a far off land. 

The winds and waves, in concert drear, 
Sob like lost souls in grief or fear, — 
My cheek bears no repentant tear. 

The stars unpitying hang on high, 
No friend, no counsellor, is nigh. 
Breaks from me one despairing cry. 

A fitful light far out at sea 
Shows haply some rich argosy, 
What good can ever come to me ? 

Lost innocence is mine at last, 

The good once mine, late prized, is past, 

And life is slipping from me fast. 

Though wave on wave each nearer come, 
Or near or far to me the same. 
They cannot wash away my shame. 



SHAME. 

When Faith is dead, then Sin is naught, 

A relic of an antique thought, 

A name — ah ! freedom dearly bought ! 

Though Sin be not, man's scorn remains, 
The stigma of reproach still stains ; 
Despised ! — ah ! what good remains ? 

To know no word of scorn for you 
Go undeserved, or false or true 
The law of scorn, the scorn you rue. 



FEAR. 



Where " Faith" is all, there Truth is naught, 
Delusion vain of " Modern Thought," 
A name with direst peril fraught. 

Though Truth bo not, conscience remains. 

And insincerity still stains; 

Led blindly — ah ! what good remains? 

Where conscience yields to human scorn, 
How shall the soul of man be born 
Anew, to greet the Judgment Morn ? 



FAITHFULNESS. 

Yes, insincerity still stains, 
And with sincerity remains 
Loyalty ever, faith that knows no feigns. 

loyal, faitlifnl brother, through the Night 
Sigh not. Thou worshippest the Right. 
Though dim the path, thy soul still walks in Light. 

Who seeks tlie right, would fain shun wrong, 
So turns from sin, and wakes his song 
Each day in Ileav'n his path along. 

[And yet, perchance, oh, sweet surprise, 
To me'll be given to ope mine eyes 
And see my Lord beyond the skies ! 

Oh, vision sweet ! as when, a child, 

1 dream'd, one night, my Saviour smiled. 
Answering my question : Am I reconciled ?] 



I SAW MY LOVE A FAINTING LILY. 

[from a book of dkeams.] 
I saw my love, a fainting lily. 
In a garden where there were no other flowers: 

Her beauty filled the place. 
And from afar I seeing her, rushed eagerly, 
Hungry to throw myself upon her snowy breast. 
I was a blush rose dizzy with perfume ; 
Flushed and burning, 
I lay upon the bosom of my lily, 
And drank in 
Heaven. 



LOVE'S CHAPLET. 

, FIRST FORM. 

Behold the chaplet of my love : 

First, lilies to her purity; 

And, that they may be more like her, let them be water lilies. 

Which do trustin,^ rest upon the bosom of the waves. 

As she upon the breast of her beloved ; 

And let them water lilies be of sweet perfume, , 

Which being rock'd and toss'd by wind and wave, 

As she by storm and sorrow of this weary world, 

Only give forth more sweetness ; 

Then, violets to her earnestness, 

Blush roses to her passion, 

And snow drops to her humility ; 

Nor let there wanting be rosemary and rue 

And thyme and lavender, and such like humblm- herbs, 

These be the week-day virtues of this working world ; — - 

Then bind the whole with ivy. 

To show that all these virtues be eternal ; 

So, 
Behold the chaplet of my love. 



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LOVE'S CHAPLET. 

THIRD FORM. 

Behold the chaplet of my love, 

My darling, fair as snow white dove, 

Whose flowers I prize all blo>»ms above. 

First, lilies to her purity, 

And that they be more like her, see 

That they do water lilies be, 

Which, floating on the wavelet's crest, 
Or i)i its cradle, trusting rest, 
As she upon the faithful breast 

Of her beloved. And bid each bloom 
That in my chaplet asketh room. 
Be lily of as sweet perfume 

As, seek how far so 'ere, I'd find ; 

That, rocked or tossed by wave and wind, 

As she by storm and sorrow blind 

Oft i' the weary world, it will, 

E'en though its cup the wavelets fill, 

Only give forth more sweetness still. 

Then, though all blonms her worth confess, 
Blush roses to her passions stress, 
And violets to her earnestness, 

And snow drops for humility, 
Br-'ng most, nor let there wanting be 
Or thyme, or rue, or rosemary, 

And such like humbler herbs to shoAv 
The week-day virtues that we know, 
This working world hath need of. So, 

Now bind the whole with i\-v, for 

Though fade all flowers on time's sad shore, 

Her virtues be for ever more. 



ANGELITS. 

[For a Triptych.] 

Lo, the angelus is sounded, 
Calling faithful souls to prayer. 

We thy faithful, love surrounded, 
Sing thee, one divinely fair : 
O te adoranius. 

We thy lambs, O Shepherd gentle, 
Learn of greatest love through tliine 

Thou hast in thy love parental 
PourM life's ichor out like wine : 
O te adoranius. 

Those before the shrine are dreaminir 
Of a Heaven beyond the sky ; 

Sweet, to us Heaven is no seemiiiir. 
Heaven is where thou art nigh : 
O te adoranius. 

O sweet Providence, stay with us ; 

Life is death with thee not here ; 
Death is life with thee to share it ; 

Losing thee our only fear : 
O te adorainus. 

All sweet things of earth have ondino:; 

So thou, sweetest of her store. 
Ah ! if worth gave life unending, 

We should lose thee nevermore : 
O te adoramus. 

ii beyond the earth are angels, 
God and heaven beyond the sky, 

Then, all angel, thou wilt reign there, 
Aye in thy fit company : 
O te adoramus. 

We will live as thou would'st have us, 
What thee pleases God must please ; 

Then in heaven we shall before thee 
Sing in that eternal ease : 
O te adoramus. 



ANGEL OF GOD 

Angel of God ! o'er all ascending, 
O'er my heart's empire sceptre extending, 
From thy sercner realms tenderly bending, 
As with a mother's love 
Watching me from above, 
Thon tell'st a Heavenly dove, 
Angel of God. 
No more 
Donbt ] a love divine. 



Angel of God, past is deriding : 
Lo ! where Angelico's sweet faith confiding, 
Left on the golden doors recoi'd abiding, 
Li every form and face 
Nanght but divine I trace. 
Divine can not thine efface, 
Angel of God. 
Thou art, 
Therefoi'e may angels be. 

When all the host of heaven, legions of cherubim, 
Rank upon rank upon rank, burning serapliim. 
Martyrs, confessors and prophets all tell of Him, 
Lamb that was slain for thee, 
Worthy to reign for thee 
Thj'ough all eternity, 
Angel of God, 
Behold 
I see thee, and know the redeemed. 



Light in my darkest night steadfastly burning, 
Shepherd and leader, true way at each turning, 
Bread to my soul, wine of joy to my yearning, 
Though I no more than thee 
See, and adore but thee, 
Should'st thou implore for me, 
Angel of God, 
Thy merit. 
In need would atone for my blindness. 

Late, when the river of death yawned to take me, 
Despair, sin and doubt, with grief, banding to shake me, 
In that dark hour love did not forsake me; 
Tliou brought'st up from the flood 
l)y thy sliciir faith in God, ' 

That wliei-eupouiutrod. 
Angel of God, 
As firm 
As u[)on Peter's rock. 

Yet had I fahcn, so diz/Jcd, O dearest one, 
riadst not thy guiding liandlodme from stone to stone, 
Up borne thyself as on air by thy laitli alone. 
Yea I on safety's side. 
By bliss as sorrow tried. 
Had wandered, but my guide. 
Angel of God, 
Faitliful, 
Still led me onwarcl. 

Now, to the All-comprehending, Invisible, 
Powers conflicting. Triune, Indivisible, 
Conscious or Unconscious, praise for thee visible. 
Mortal be thou, or more, 
Waif on the eternal's shore, 
We know not, but adore, 
Angel of God ! 
In blessing. 
Sweet lives can never die. 



Yet, if it ours be to choose our believing, 
Mine, the sweet hope of" my fathers receiving, 
After earth, Heaven, all earth's errors retrieving. 
There, heaven to make complete. 
When 1 approach His feet. 
Thee waiting shall I meet. 
Angel of God. ^ 
To lead 
Thy won up the silver stairs. 



SUITE : 30, 40, 50, AND 60. 



I. 

O NUT brown eyes and s^oldeii hair 
Made for your own and our undoing, 

We can but wish we were so fair 

And that 'twere you who did the wooing. 

O roseate lips ! The Eglantine 

Hath breath less soft, hath hue less tender. 
O, that our task were yourS' — to woo, 

And it were ours but to surrender. 

O, mossy touch ! no velvet soft 

Nor eider hath with thee comparing. 

Ah ! that your gift were ours, sweet one. 
And we with you the gift were sharing. 

Yes, yours the gift that none e'er tamed, 
That wins unbid ! Gift past extolling, 

Gift still mysterious, still unnamed, 

Though countless aeons earth's been rolling. 

O nut brown eyes and golden hair, 
Made for your own and our undoing, 

We met, we looked, we loved, we lived. 
And neither knew which did the wooincr. 



II. 

I read these words writ long ago. 

And half I sigh, and half I'm smiling ; — 

Was it a sin, that me beguiled, 

Or gift from Heaven, that sweet beguiling ? 

At eight, by Katie Saunder's side 

I felt infantile ardor glowing ; 
The decades pass. When will it stop, 

This lovino; and this love bestowing? 



And more I smile that each new love 
Makes only all past love completer, 

And all past love's completeness makes 
The last new love seem only sweeter. 

III. 

The autumn moonlight o'er my path 
Of fallen leaves eoft shadows streweth ; 

I comit my fifty years and muse : — 
My cheek no tear regretful deweth. 

I do not justify myself ; 

I yield mine all in full surrender 
Unto the powers which make and keep, 

To whom I my account must render. 

But, though I say not theirs the gift, 
I dare not say they not the giver, 

Nor seemeth Heaven less pure that there 
I thee perchance may love forever. 



IV. 

O, nut brown eyes and golden hair ! 

O dear lost past's divinest doing ! 
To meet, to look, to love, to live, 

And neither know which does the wooing. 



AU caf:6. 



15uKK/V Om) 1>IJJ<'KKK 



'Tis very sweet to be caress'd. 

By old, — or young, — I like it best ; — 

I like it best 

To be caress'd, — 

By plain, or fair ; 

B}' one with hair 

Like molten gold, — 

Or ebon old 

"That glitters blue-black in the snn," — 

( )r those that weai' 

A priceless wealth of auburn hair, — 

Or those with locks less ample, still 

Smoothly arranged, — or left at will. 

Then, as to size, 

What most 1 prize 

Is tall, — or short, — 

Or one that you 

Would place somewhere betwixt the two, 

And stout, — or slight. 

Some when 'tis night. 

Are fairer than they be by day ; 

Then others, well, are fair alway ; 

Others most fair by day, will lack 

A certain charm when skies are black, 

And mem'ry then can scarcely trace 

The likeness of their daylight face. 

Some are the fairest seen afar. 

And other some are fairest near. 

Some's charm's from strange, some native, sky. 

Some please but once. Some please foi* aye. 

The bold, the shy, the grave, the gay, 

Each pleases in her different way. 



What I'd like most ? that you would know ? 
— That 1 would scarcely like to show, 
Lest what I named might seem to you 
What none of taste would care to woo. 
That'd do me wrong, my taste I mean, 
Which, catholic, 's still nice I ween. 
Stay ; I can make it clear to you, 
My taste I can appi-ove to yon. 
What would I win. 
As well as woo ? 
Well, I would like, — 
Say, one that you 
Would like to win, 
And so would woo. 

Come, boys and girls, 

Old maids and churls. 

Ye happy wives, 

Men of blest lives, — 

Come one, come all, 

Confess, confess, — 

'Tis very sweet a sweet caress. 



Contemplative Old Buffer 



Each has his thought 

Of what is best. 

Caresses bought. 

With bliss are fraught 

To some, who call 

Caresses, freely given, nought. 

The best doth pall 

On such as z6st 

Lack in all banquets, 

And only find it in unrest. 

Ah, happiest ye who 

Love to give and take too ! 



Philosoimiic Old Buffek 



Each, in his thought 
Of what is best. 



Choosing his own, 

Should leave the rest, 

And tolerate that others see 

With eyes from his that different be. 

What pleaseth 'pendeth on the pleased, 

As sex and age is different seized, 

Attracted, moved, and made to turn. 

As moths that in the candle burn, 

To'ard that which charms and fascinates, 

Cools or consumes as will the fates. 

Each positive its negative, 

Each negative its positive, 

Seeks and attracts as the decree 

Of nature makes each need to be. 

The need of each we all may know, 

Judging by what their choices show. 

Thus, — if their choice a proof we deem — 

Unto their opposites 'twould seem 

That boys are joys 

And girls are pearls 

And youths sweet truths, 

And maidens fair 

Delicious are, 

And manhood bold 

More worth than gold ; 

And O, how good 

Ripe womanhood ! 

To throbbing breast 

All have a zest, 

Each to his fellow. 

Some like fruit mellow ; 

Others tart ; some sweet ; 

Some part company 

Of those whose meat 

On table's only tart or sweet. 

The few I name, 

Some would find tame ? 

Well, I'll confess 

That, truth to tell, 



As for the rest, 
By til em as well 
Some find it best 
To be caress'd. 
They find it best 
To be caress'd ; 
It has a zest, 
And makes them blest, 
And gives thein rest. 



II. 

(yOMPLACKN'l' Ol.I) lillKKKK : 



Since all are good, 
Let who will meet 
With all this day ; 
Let me to-night ; 
An 't suits my mood, 
Meet her I've woo'd. 
So, swift files time 
Till morning liglit. 
Then let me be 
As one at sea 
Who sails to find 
On some far sea 
Rich argosy, 
Or some night stand 
On golden strand 
Of promis'd land. 

And so, ah so, 
Let days on go. 
Till I am old. 
When all this gold, 
In mem'ry stor'd, 
Shall me afford 
Rich dreams of past 
Joys so amass'd ; 
And serve mc still. 
The when I will, 
fn mein'j-ies sweet 



Of banquets meet 

For royal men. 

On vain rcfi^rets, — 

Ah ! that most frets, — 

For chances lost 

[ am not tost ; 

For torture now, 

And torture then. 

Both to avoid 

Is wise, I ween, 

And never g-iving 

When I feel like thrift. 

So, never weary. 

Would I make my shift ; 

Storing my mem'ry and my strength by turns, 

As nature bids, — to me reveals 

Need of which rest my nature feels. 

What hath most zest 

To throbbing breast, 

That most gives rest. 

'Tis so to me ; 

Ilaply to thee. 



PuAcridAi. Old Biiffkk 



Well, all you say 
May be quite true ; 
Some folk, no doubt, 
Agree with you ; 
But man was wise 
To catch the prize 
Nearest his hand ; 
Rest to secure, 
A wife and more. 
Worth was the prize 
Some sacrifice. 



KAnicAi. Old J>i!KKi':ii 



Could none do better. 
But are we 
That backward he ? 



Who profits most, 

I>y coiitnicts, yet may most Iwive lost. 

Contracts and contracts be there ; more, less, cost. 

Why should we he on (j[ucstlon toss'd ^ 

Half truths are good, whole truths are better. 

Wedlock is «:^ood ; but 'tis a fetter. 

O, must 1 fetters wear ^ 'Tis well, 

Can I not walk without. Yet still 

Who needs not crutch nor fetters must be held 

Some better oft than he 

Who by their lielp may hobbledy 

Just get along. In this age late, 

The rough means of an earlier state 

We sha'n't long use, to find in food 

The fatherless. All means are good 

Lead to good ends, till better, found, 

Supplant them, sir ; as sickles were 

To reap our fields, ere " lieapers " were 

Made to reap fields faster and neater, 

And give us bread plentier and sweeter. 

ISEN'rKNTious Old 1'ukkiou: 

In days of old, black bread for I lodge ; 
My lord might ride, but Hodge must trudge ; 
White bread and railroads now ; for Ilodge? 
There is no I lodge, and none need trudge. 

III. 

liONici.Y Stka.nukk a'i- tu k Next Tahijo : 

Kellner, my reck'ning. Faugh ! their vile 
Subject me chafes ; drives me off, while 
I yet can't thiidc what else to do, 
Nor even think where'er to go. 

IV. 

Wkakv Waitkb {sotto voce) : 

All gone ? Save these. Would they'd go too ! 
Their odious converse gives to me 
A weary sense of vacancy. 



1 know them each ; and know they all 
Profit by wliat they say 's a thrall. 
Not one, if with his wife witlioiit, 
Would know wiiich way to turn about. 
Who but their wives would ever Iciok 
At any of them twice ? Or brook 
Their selfish cf^otistic talk — 
lilague, most of it ? Or walk 
Across tlie street for one, save she 
So 'd get rid of his company '( 
Old age, bereft of charm, is sad ; 
rinwed, 'twould go all to the bad. 
Bah ! here, a IJodge, J must wait up 
While these old dolts, o'er empty cup, 
Empty their empty heads, — of what ? — 
Mere talk and froth and lies and i-ot. 
I fain would go home to my wife, 
But here am tied. Oh, this dog's life ! 
All gone but these, yet they sit hei-e 
And prate of what no one need fear 
They think the tenth of what we hear, 
Or know the thousandth part. Will ought 
Ne'er stop these praters about nought, 
Who should adjourn, let me instead 
Shut up the place and go to bed ? 






■J^rf-T^.^- . 



THE FIRST ODE FROM ANACREON. 

I wished to sing of Atrides, 
Of Cadmus I wished to sing ; 

But still my lyre of love alone 
Responds with sounding string. 

Lately indeed, I changed my strings 

And all my lyre, and I, 
Fell singing the labors of Hercules, 

But my lyre would love reply. 

Farewell to you then heroes, 

To you a long farewell, 
For my lyre but on one theme, 

On the theme of love, shall dwell. 



A NEW LOVE. 
I have a love, and she is bonny, 
how bonny, O how bonny. 
As bonny as a love can be ; 
And all that bonny is for me. 
For me ! for me ! 
All ! can it be 
That all that bonny is for me ! 

When she smiles the sky is azure ; 

how azure, clear and azure. 
As azure hs a sky can be ; 
And the sky smiles so for me. 
For me ! for me ! 
Ah ! can it be 
That the sky smiles so for me ! 

And her eyes they are like lode-stars. 

Burning lode-stars, tender lode-stars, 
As full of love as eyes can be ; 
And they f^low witli love for mo! 
For me ! for me ! 
Ah ! can it be 
That that look of love's for me ! 

() tender eyes, and smile so fair. 
And trembling lip, and rippling hair, 
-And mossy touch, have ye a care ! 

The thought that ye are all for me. 
Its sweetness doth its bitter be. 
So sweet it breeds uncertainty. 



TllK MESSAGE. 

DKSEllTED DAi'IINE TO AN OLD LOVER. 

Uiuler the sea 

Have travelled to thee 

Words, and jiiist three. 

" i>oy " and " both well." 
What did that tell'^ 
What did that spell? 

Capital G, 
K, A, N,,D, 
F, A and T, 
IJ, E, li. See? 

Grandfather ? No ! 
Exactly, just so. 
Grandfather. Oli ! 

What does that whis[)er, 
That stings like a blister? 
Of what truths consist, eh ? 

My high cocko'loruni 

Must go in for decorum, 

And in more than mere for-m ; 

Must consider how foolish 
Are things done undulish ; 
And mustn't be mulish, 

But meeting the fact, sir, 
Must make a compact, sir, 
Just how he must act, sir ; 

Mustn't run fast up-stairs, 
Must shun knotty affairs. 
Must abjure youthful airs; 



Mustn't think his smiles pearls, 
Nor his moustache give twirls, 
Nor make eyes at the girls. 

Each dog has his day, 
And now old dog Tray 
Must take grandfather's way ; 

When walking abroad. 
Must look at the road 
And not at the crowd ; 

And of sweet eyes to meet, or 
For kisses still sweeter. 
Or something completer, 

No hope or thought ever 
Must grandpa discover. 
Or harbor. No, never. 

And that friend like a lover 

We each would discover 

'Mid each crowd, must give over, 

When that message to thee 
Travelled under the sea, 
To the past P. P. C. 



AFTKU ALL. 

The schoolboy siiif^s of love, love jet iiiikiiowii ; 
The nifin a new love sings, the old scarce Howii ; 
The graiiclsire sighs, his seeds ot" love all sown. 
What for tliese sevei'al lovers can atone ? 

Is there atonement needed for the song'^ 
Ls there atonement needed, new love wrong '^ 
Is there atonement needed, snch seed sown ? 
Is there atonement needed when alTs done if 

Who answer brings convincing? Lo, march ])ast 
The Antique Faiths, each framed for aye to last ; 
They frown or smile from their experience vast, 
While present ethics in new moulds are cast. 

Tlungs, praised once, are most detested late? 

They may be prais'd again. Man's estiinate 

Of his 8upj)osVl, real, needs at any date 

Chan<;;c with time's chan<>in<!; face. Wills Ileav'n, or Fate ? 

Change too, men's estimate of written screed. 
All ancient histories that bring, or breed, 
Commandments, all authorities. Once freed 
Such yoke, then for obedience blind what need ? 

Once for increase of warriors men took wives; 
With [)eace, excess of men, scant food, man hives; 
For health and wit, not nundjers, tlmn man strives. 
For hapj)ier and more useful, longer lives. 

Who wins love's happy ; hap])ier he who loves ; 
Happier yet he who loving, to love moves ; 
Ilap[)ier who, full contented, never roves; 
Happiest, such lover when earth, Ileav'n, approves. 

But what wins that a])])roval ? What is right ? 

Two things we have to guide us thro' the night 

Of doubt: What through all parts brought most delight; 

And conscience, answering to our cry for light. 



The Future's order, our's? Their ways, our wiiys 'i 
Man's erst best tliought in no contiimanee stays ; 
Our virtues, sins nuiy be in coniing days ; 
Our sins worst thought of tlien have liii!:host praise. 

How shall we face our last hour, such words wilt ! 
With bowed head, in humble awe, as lit ; 
Yet soul serene, by light of conscience lit, 
Victims to save aye still our powers knit. 

Uttering- conviction, victims save woM rain, 
Men's cruel automatic acts restrain, 
S])eaking as those who cried (alas, in vain !) : 
Witchcraft's but naught, witch-iires but needless pain. 



Comes now the night, the night awaited long; 
Fades now the light, the light that seem'd so strong; 
Silent grows earth, earth once so full of song; 
Joy mem'ries fade. Fade mcm'ry too of wrong. 



■ SUITE: AFTER THE SUMMER IS ENDED. 

I. 'AnOAAflN. 

II. The last Sioh of the expiring Convolvulus. 

III. The Sunflowek. 

'AnOAASlN. 

lie was utterly beautiful, 
And oh, when they saw Him, 
Their souls from their bodies 
Seemed to fall out, and to 
Leave them defenceless. 
And they to fall backward 
As those dead before Him, 
Their garments drop off them, 
And leave them to lie, 
A white offering before Him, 
As fronting an altar. 

He was girdled with lilies 
And dripping with amber. 
'Round his broad forehead 
Was bound a gold coronal. 
God-like, immortal, 
Utterly beautiful, 
He stood in his beauty 
A conqueror triumphant. 

Oh, dumbness of anguish, 
, Oh, chalice untasted, 
Unutterable joys all denied them! 
He saw them, yet saw them not, 
Heard, as who hears not, 
And smiling pass'd onward. 



THE LAST SIGH OF THE EXPIRING CONVOLVULUS. 



lie smiled and I died. 
He passed and I perished. 



THE SUNFLOWER. 



I saw 

On the floor 
Of the sky 
His chariot pass bj. 

I cannot fly, 

I can only lie 
And adore, 

And keep my eye 
Turned to his h'o-ht 
From mo]"n to nit^lit. 

And then not weep, 
Bat sleep. 
To rest, 

For Jiis dear sake, 
And 'gainst I wake, 
My aching breast, — 

(Sweet ache ! sweet ache, 
That aches for his dear sake.) 

Aching for love, 
Of him above. 
More far, 
Tlian any star, 
More SM'eet, 
Than any meat, 
His sight. 
All my delight. 



His fire 

Kindles and puts out my desire. 

The summer loner. 

He is my song. 

ISTor when the uutumn comes do I complain, 
That of my golden stamens none remain. 
What were the need, 
Now each a seed 
Has full become 

Quickened and pregnant with his love, 
Each one the sum 
Of all my good 
Itself containing? 
(I am not waning 

When my seeds are ripe. 
Then first my immortality's perchance begun.) 

Each one the sum of all my ^ood, 

Quickened and pregnant with his love ! 
Eeady when 'ere he calls me from above, 
To wake from sleep, 
As in his arms 
Kept safe from harms, 

And struggling to his light. 
In all delight. 

To sing again, again, again, 
(As I his praise in glad refrain. 
All summer lone-. 
Have poured my song. 
An endless strain,) 
To sing again, again, again. 
His endless praise in glad refrain, 
While cycling ages wax and wane. 



TKII'TYCII. 

THE HIGH PRIEST. 

I. 

So stand, O i^reat High Priest, upon the canvas limned, 

In vestnre sacerdotal of Melcliisedec ; — 

Yet more than priest, as thou, O Christ, 

Art Priest and King. Pnrple for Pojalty ; 

Upon thy brows Mitre and Crp\v'n ; 

Thine nndervesture white in purity ; 

Thy crimson robe ensanguined of the Saci'ifice ; 

About thy loins the golden girdle of Dominion bound ; 

The mystic jewels of the Covenant 

Made with the twelve, and us their heirs, 

Once on thy shoulders as a burden borne. 

Once as a lamb upon thy breast pressed close ; 

Beneath thy feet the shadow of thy Cross ; 

Thyself the Symbol of all sacrifice, 

With outstretched hands that bear the Wounds ; 

In azure air, eternal set, supernal seen, 

Forever at the Father's throne 

The incense of thine Intercession offering. 

II- 

(tue picture.) 

III. 

As, when the painter rested from his work. 

The poor, the ignorant, the race despised. 

Journeying from fai-, forded the streams. 

Threaded the forests where the bay flowers bloom • 

And, all unused to art, in wonder gazing, 

Hush'd their rude voices in thy presence nor knew why, 

So when I come from howe'er far to thee, 

Ilush'd be the voices rude of daily life. 

Of strife, of self-assertion, of complaint ; 

Behind the symbol bid me see the symbolized ; 

Be symbol of His love and of my fealty ; 

Oh ! let thy jewels bear my name at last ; 

And be my King ; forever be 

Thine intercession's offering for me. 



TRIPTYCH. 

A DKEAM. 
I. 

Wandering once in Italy, 

Glancing from the flying train, 

Saw I wond'rous cupolas, — 
Seen, and never seen again. 

dray those ancient cupolas, 

ftising 'mid the towers, were seen, 

Of an old wall' d city gray ; 
Green the valley all between. 

Journeying oft in Italy, 

Glancing from the flying train, 
Sought I oft those cupolas, 

Seen, and never seen again. 



II. 



In the crowded London street, 

On a sudden, wond'rous eyes 
Fell on mine, as " Found at last ! " 

With a look of glad surprise. 

Threading oft those crowded streets 

Sought I oft, behind, before, 
Tlip eyes I never can forget. 

iBut those eyes saw nevermore. 

III. 

Long years pass'd. Then, list, I dream'd 

Again I was in Italy, 
And paus'd 1 where I saw afar 

Those ancient towers, green flelds between. 



Threaded I the verdant meads, 
Nearing, found, without surprise, 

Waiting- for nie, by the gate, 

The owner of the wond'rous ejep. 

We entered, Imnd in hand, the gate, 
Pass'd silent through the ancient street, 

Came where the vast cathedral stood. 
Whose doors op'd to our entering feet. 

O, wond'rous ancient cupola ! 

Its vast dome was of iqusic made 
And all its ancient galleries 

Thriird sweet with: Love, be not afraid. 

And Architecture vespers wove 

That priests were chaiinting, and I saw 

Introit and beuedicite 
Ilise solemn thi'oiigh the perfumM air. 

Its incense flow'rs, its tlow'rs all sweet 
Echoes of Eden's sacred rood ; 

And lo, before the Patriarch, 
We stood in innocence of God. 

The Architecture while I hear, 
While the gorgeous Music see, — 

Lo, the ring was bless'd. One speaks : 
Seal'd at last and seal'd to nie. 



, DIITYCIIS. 

Si'UINO. YoL'I'll. lJNJ'RA(rri(^AIJI'V. 

TiiK (iuiicF. I. Driil-iiii;-. 

Lks Champs I<]lvsioks. II. Oiio brcatli ol; Iii<li:ui Siiiuiiier, 

The best tart of like. In the tueasuky. 

Practicality. I. The gift 

Needless losses. 11. Paling the glory. 



Sl'RING. 

When tho Spring is wuning, 

Waxing into Summer, 
Wherefore my complaining? 
Waxing, it is gaining ; 
And gaining — why, gaining's gaining. 
^Tis all the old retaining 
And ever new attaining. 
'Tis losing, that is paining. 
Should aught but joy he reigning, 
That sum of good obtaining 
Of all old sweets remaining 
And ever new attaining? 
Then why this sad complaining, 
All my })resent staining? 

Ah! 'tis Sjyr'iiuj is waning. 



II, 



1 OUTU. 

When our Youth is ended, — 

Into Manhood ripened — 
Why with ])ride is bhiuded 
Aught of sadness ? landed 
Is that which but olfended. 
The immature is ended. 
To the mature ascended ; 
Imperfectness is mended ; 
The weakness, that contended 
With ])erfect virtue, ended. 
That we should feel olfended, 
Or sigh, like those unfriended, 
O'er lack and fault amended, 
Is not to be defended. 

Aye ! I)ut Youth is ended. 



TIIK OEIEF. 



-Ih - 

As in the Summor I sat singing, 
Singing, singing, singing, singing, 

A Griof unto my heart camo winging, 
A griof camo winging to my heart. 



Wihlly I rose witli youth's griof fearing, 
My heart's defences hound ahout ; 

And all my misery foreseeing, 
Vainly strove to har it out. 

But the grief whoso wing was weary 
With long heating of the air, 

Forced an entrance to my heart. 
And having entered rested there. 



In the Autumn I sat sighing. 

Sighing, sighing, sighing, sighing. 
For the griof within my heart was dying. 

The grief was dying in my heart. 

Why then, I asked, this strange repining ? 

Why sigh at loss of care and pain ? 
This grief, my heart's rest undermining. 

Why almost wish it would remain ? 

I who had opposed its coming, 
Suffered from it tears and care. 

From in my heart long hearing of it, 
Had learned to love it resting there. 



M'.S (MIAMI'S Kh^SMMS. 

I A i>ii"rY<iii. I 
I. 
Wo Hill. I)(>iiral,li I. lid cIu^hIiiiiIh' Itiiify rthfuld, 
IJciHidd (111) r<iiiiiliiiiin <j;iirliiM(l(Ml willi llovvtirH, 
III oiirly HiiiiiiiKM-, {\w I'lill (hiy Ik^^iiii ; 
S|>)irkI(Ml l,li(^ air Ix-iu^mIIi tlio Miiiiliii;j;' hum ; 
I'lio hii'dliii^H iiiiuld llicir l()\(^ on <u'«)i-y sido ; 
Olivri^ni aiid oiivricr jtaHrtM liaiid in liaiid ; 
I'hhhM ;i;ailv iiioiiiilod ni|uiit' aii<l ama/.niio ; 
Armorial l»caiiii;4H dccLM ricli cliariotH ; 
IMia'l.oii, plain calirioldl, a coiiiil Ichh lliioiif:;', 
Moimlod, doHc.diidrd from \\\r arc-ii ol nlarH ; 
And, y(^H, n nocc, and liur llui yontlil'iil Itrido. 
All naliirt! nniilin;:,', naltiid'H (iliioroHt work, 
All tiKtii, HiiiilM hiick u;4'aiii, atliitiM 
To nil (lio joyoMrt iiilliioiKMi of iJio liinr. 
Y(!l., in I.Iki nniKic, an a niiimr lone, 
AlmoHl. irt homo a ni^li ii|)i'n I lie liro*!/.<'; 
HoHido Mio roimtuiii, 'iioulli l.lic lloworin^' Iioch, 
MhoIi Hal, in jovoiiH hiiiiiiikm', Had and lon(^ 

II. 

Wo liaHliMiM, when lla* lro<!H vv<iro l>la.ok and Itaro 
I'aHl ioiinlaiuH Hilcnl, ic.o-lxinnd, dark and droar. 
No |>aHH<iiH ;^r(!ol,iii;^' ;^a,vo, nilonl, liioy Ijnrry <»n, 
Mac.li OIK! vvia|tl. KolliHiily in anxioiin lliou^lil ; 

I )()H(!rl,od llio loiin' viwIaH of haro Irocn, 

Savo l»y Honio j4'('iida.inic niiilllcd in liiHca|M'; 

I I |twM.r(|, f,(»war<l l.lui arc.li, al(Hi;j;' liiti Hlipp'ry roa<l 
A ^ihlx'l, druf^", croaking' lionoalli llai vvc^if^lil. 
(/luiJii'd iindoriKialJi it. of a Mock of hIoiio 

liiko tt Harc.o[)liair,'iiH, l.oiln hIow and Hud ; 

Day ra<lin<^' •^■looinily ; iinlil. I.lio lanipn ; 

Olio [»oor <loa<i Irozoii Hparrow hy l.lu! j)alli 

To l,(!ll liin com radoH (load or llowii aliir ; 

All luiliiro cliiird and d(;H(da,l(! and Had 

Sp(;iikin<^' no oli(torriil worcin l,o liiiman li(;arl.H ; 

Yot, cliii;;;iii^ en,oli to oiioli, uiid liaHJoiiiii'^' on, 

Hy i<;o-l)oimd roiiiit, 'iioulli hraiiolutH hiaok and l>aro, 

Wo turn and Htiiilo to-duy. All ! noitlior Ih ulonc. 



THE BEST PART OI^^ LIFE. 

(From Alossiimlro il:i Vmnorn.) 
I. 

Acolto : 

I read the jioeins of those to whom s:id fate 
Denied hive's sweet caresses. What the word. 
Wise, patient, scornful, full of faith and pi-ayer, 
Alike to me a bitterness of wrono-, 
A cry of victims stained every song-. 
[Stained alike victim of unfair self, 
Man's love of fairest things, man's love of pelf, 
Prudence, advantage for a life-long stay, 
All things that love usurp, deprive to-day 
Lovers of love's fruition, seek a morrow 
May come, may not, still leave to-day a sorrow.] 



n. 

Speralto : 

I read the poems of love. The lovers sang : 

That when beside the loved one, cold nor heat 

Nor storms, nor bare surroundings, scarce were known. 

Riches and honor, praise or friends, were less 

Thau presence of the loved one, love's caress. 

[If love's life's best, and we can live but once, 

Sad is the life that ends and knows not love. 

1 joy, and you. They grieve that we may joy ? 

Is there no better way, no way without alloy ? 

Praise for each way that blesses, praises alway. 

Oh! might its sorrt)vvs pass, its blessings stay. J 



I'KAOTK^AMTV. 

I A DirrYoii-l 

I. 

You who, in the parks, throu<jjli tlio sultry nij^htB, 

Seated or ])aeiii^ bear your })!illi(l babes, 

You, inothorB, you who all these thirty yearn 

Scarce tor one hour have been absent from my thoughts, 

That it is thirty years, forgive. l>ear not 

Your wrongs, your griels, your HulTorings, before 

The tribunal of justice, earth's or heaven's. 

Plead not my lagging, if others havi; outrun. 

Veil your accusing eyes, nor bid iJiem shame 

A wavering hand, dull brain, and eye so dim, 

Help, if perceived, ill wpisd, sped not at all. 

Yours be the mercy we have lack'd. J'lead not 

Our slow brought hel[) or our indillerenee. 

(^ount not your dead, count not the days and nights 

In stilling homes returning year by year. 

Our blundering past, poor present, future — all forgive. 

ri. 

But you fair darlings of all happiest homes, 

lired in sweet airs and gentlest gales of heaven, 

Nurtured with all that life can give of joy, 

Plead you before the tribuiuil of love. 

Plead by your beauty, you vvlioni luiaith makes fair, 

Pl(!ad with your motluM's, all that love you. Leave 

No heart untouch'd, no brain or hand unmoved, 

Till all are seeking, finding, pressing on. 

Find tluim or build thism homes as sane as yours. 

Let, who build aught, build wiser or as wise. 

Who build not, claim the best of them who build, 

Till fault by fault, faults brcid through man's device, 

iJy man's device be corupiered, i)ut away ; 

So from life's canvas fade, mother and pallid babe. 

To be but as a dream, a weary di-cam that's past — ■ 

Through joy 'tis far away alone a memory. 



DIPTYCH. 

NEEDLESS LOSSES. 



Wlien on my lioiisc top, far away from care, 
Over tiic tree tops, soft the summer air 
Comes wafted, where the hroad roof shadows me, 
My tiow'rs about me, some for hummhif^-birds. 
Thistles for yellow-hammers, thyme for bees. 
Sweet perfumed flowers for the one I love, 
I think me of the old and sick and poor, — 
You, poet, in the house on street confined, 
Losing the summer wind, tlie night of stars, — 
You hunchback, bedrid in your tenement,— 
You, brother of singers, palsied on your bed, — 
Knowing your wretched fellows myriad, 
Seeing, through ha]>it, such sweet gifts shut out, 
I sigh, half thinking every effort vain 
Would mind men not to lose as well as gain. 

IL 

Then when. I think of you too, Ivan brave, 
Drear decades faithful to your aged dam, 
You, poor old Constant, by the closed gate. 
You, Sylvan, with your hopeless dreams of joy, 
You Cherdos, you (Javarodel, 
And all your kind (endless as stars. 
As stars as pure, as single shining on,) 
Wearing out life in vainest sacrifice, 
Vainest, since needless, (like the dazed stag's. 
Stopped by a slender thread across his path,) 
As walls material that needless shut out joy 
Seem customs, laws, contrivances of men 
That, seeming needful, needless shut out joy. 
Make many gain, make you, dear brothers, lose. 



(From AUessandro da Vermora.) 

DRIFTING. 

[a leaf of a diptych.] 

I succored more than I will tell, 
I trusted utterly for love, 
Was used to the fill, the while 
Who used, careful or careless cut 
The cords that bound me to my best. 
I drifted forth, and 'woke to find 
My cable parted, compass^and rudder gone, 
And all I trusted, I alone and ill. 
1 Avho had built my ship, and made 
It worth one's while to voyage with me. 
Shall I construct again, when faith is dead; 
Or shall I drift, and drift. 
And so drift out to sea 
Afar from God and thee, 
Drift out into the night, 
A night that knows no morrow ? 
Ah ! if surcease of sorrow 
That night bring to my heart, 
So best that we should part, 
And I should be 
Adrift 
And drifting out to sea. 



ONE BREATH OF INDIAN SUMMEH. 

[a leaf of a Dirrycii.] 
I dreamed that one estranged, one once too loved, 
Was near me, but with taee averted as of wont for loiii^. 
J, and not he, on that esti'anjjjement stood. He ^ave the cause. 

And yet, b(jth in mj dreau), and when I waked, all day, 
A plensant sense was with me of his nearness, kin to love ; 
And even with face averted, his as mine, 
Near me he seemed still dear. Ah! why? 
Him I had loved had never been ; 
His form had housed unworthiness, 
So nought to me. I knew it, yet I once had thought 
That ill that house I held a friend. 
[All, but dear friends, this j)ast is one 
Can never be explained away ; 
I was mistaken as to what the house contained ; 
' Its owners changed not ; they remained the same ; 
Unwortln' of a good man's love from first to last.] 
I ne'er had loved the house excjept for what 
It had contained, but in my cheated thought ; 
Itself was not so fair that I should love it, save for those within; 
They nevei- were within it I had fancied there and loved ; 
And yet, when near that house, but in a dream, a moment's si)ace 
Old love cofme back, or present love, ne'er changed or dead, 
But only curtained off from sight, so passed for gone, 
Or love, new born perhaps, born in my dream, 
Came tender from the skies to me returning, 
Is with me now, has been with me all day, [come back, 
And breathes an atmosphere of Indian summer's summer days 
Of love impossible made possible, 
Of inefiaceable effaced, 

Of changeless changed and wrong made right, 
That still stays by me all this Indian summer day. 



Of Faith and Faithfulness. 



IlSr THE TREASURY. 



[The Jesct WoK.srttppKB :~What you doubt I affirm uot.l 



The Queen of Sheba gave great Solomon 

A parting gift surpassing all the rest ; 

Two precious jars, rich jewelled, each one filled 

With dust mysterious of the elder world, 

Wherein the echoes of his wisdom fell. 

To sleep there potent for all time to come. 

Minutest portion of the one cast forth 

Toward coming pestilence would drive it back; 

The other had like power o'er spirits dire, 

Could drive them back and shut the gates of hell. 

These, as the richest treasures of his crown, 
Sol'mon did guard. But in his happy reign, 
Made safe by wisdom, scarce or pestilence 
Or spirits dire e'er asked their use. More late, 
If used howe'er, their store still wasted not. 

When came the taking of Jerusalem, 

These jars were captive borne to Babylon, 

And when the Jews returned home, held back ; 

And, aye since handed down from power to power, 

Are held this day by one small Eastern tribe, 

Poor, weak, half taught, and rich in only this. 

These jars, the keen thrift of our modern times. 
For this our Western wonld would now acquire, 



.'/ 



T(i diivL' l),ii k prill li.iiii li'T cilics fair, 
'riiii';U<M>'*il of |)L'sliliMiri> .ukI spiiils (liif. 

\'(Mi inocU at spiiilsi' al llir lali- yci iikiic;? 

Find il l)iit clumsy? call iL lunvly made i* 

Proved 'jid iIk- tali-, doiihl Mill Uk' jars ckIsI ? 

If shown till- jars, doubl llicy wer(; Solomon's ? 

Or proved ihe jars came straight from Solomon, 

Doubt if h(.' e'er believed they held such power? 

Doiiht, last, that they, whate'iM wise SoI'mon thought, 

Hold or have ever held the power ihey claim ; 

And failing- this, what boots il all the rest 

Be true or false? Idle the storied links 

Or chain coniph-le that diags a worlhl<-ss gill ; 

Its worth not provabh', tin* re'-t is idly piovcd ; 

Proved this, the rrst may lollow or may not, 

Ours siili then power o er [)estilence and hell. 

Paling the glory ol King Solomon, 

Wiih light more heavenly Ian, a teacher comes ; 

Wisdom, if Ins, is wisdom. wli(!lher sprung 

l''iom elder wisdom or horn lip;, divine. 

II Ins the wisdnin llial lialli powci to make 

M'-n whr)le and ( li-an, and shut out every liaim, 

Thai power remains, though doubl surround the talc 

Ol liirili >>\ niita( le or cruel death ; 

Is ours forever, if his trnlli In- Iriilli, 

Mis gift accordant with the needs of men, 

Ilis laws harmonious with eternal law; 

Can Mess us still. A iiglilcoiis lile our aim, 

Can make us fii (oi Hcav(!n, be there one. 

Make earth a hcav(;n, be there other none. 

The end of all devotion's love and ruth, 

Bring 111— the reign of Righteousness and Tiuih. 



WORDS FOR ILLUMINATIONS, OR TO ACCOMPANY 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Tower of ivory ! 

[For a richly illuminated page, addressed to one who criti- 
cised the poet's handwriting, and showing, — beneath a crest, 
and above the flowers named in the poem, shown as prone 
before it — the initial letter of a Lady's name, formed by the 
name being written thrice across the page, twice parallel and 
once athwart ; the letters of the name (showing as capitals) 
illuminated in gold and the colors of the Howers, and each letter 
also serving in its appropriate place in the text.] 

TuK CIKCLINO YEAR. 

[Written to accompany the gift of a book of views of 
twelve capitals of columns carved with designs illustrative of the 
progress of the year : icicles, bare branches, budding boughs, 
early leafage, full foliage, flowers, fruit, and evergreens, and 
with birds mating, nest-building, feeding their young, teaching 
them to Hy, and flying southward.] 

The Song of the Rose. 

[For an illumination in which, upon a golden trellis, in 
verdant text, as if foliage, and budding sometimes into ten- 
derer tints as if into buds and flowers, is seen to cling the 
Song, like a climbing rose.] 

The Climbing Rose. 

[L'envoy, written under the Song of the Rose.] 

A TEMPLE PoRCn. 

With a jewelled " damoiselle." 

An iris. 

A Portrait. 

A TIME Serene. 

Benedictus qui patitur. 



THE TOWEll OF IVORY. 

OHi tower of ivory, till the silent night 

I watched the splendid cereus unfold 

P e t A 1 bv petal |— ill its wealth of blooui 

With beauty seemed to fill the crystal dome. 

No lady, th Rough the whole wide world save one. 

Could fitly image forth that royal flower, 

In beauty like thUI wond Rous orient queen 

That shone on Sol'mon and his glory paled. 

But, when the morn— ng broke startling the watchers 

And sent its violet rays athwart our fading lamps. 

And nature smiled radiant and elatE, 

THe morning's gloQiy seemed her fittest flower. 

The budding morn swift blossomed inTo day 

And in A garden all of roses one arose 

Perfectest mid peQ^fection, loveliest, best, 

Bearing in peRfumed breast a crystal tear 

Of tender pity for < world less fair. 

Who bears the ceReus and the morning's flowei-. 

Pitying the griefs sXe is too fair to share, 

Be hers, O rose, since earliest time the queen 

And type of every loveliest flower that blows. 

Lady, liere at your feet I lay tliEm all. 

Prone as the phantom sheaves of Joseph's di-eam. 

My task is done, and proved my wriTing fair, 

For see, her name all fairest bars the page, 

Shielding my vagrant lines from your disdain. 



A NECKLACE FOE THE CIRCLING YEAE 



When icy-laden branches bending low, 
But image forth my heart— its stifled flow- 
Its chilled faith — its doubt of good, 
Of endless bliss, of living word — 
Once by your side, 
All these to blot 
Your presence has the wondrous power, 
And gives to me a smiling hour. 
With all my doubts and cares forgot. 

When February boughs are bare. 
And faith is dead, and only care 
And doubt are mine — 

Once by your side. 

Ne'er I rej^ine — 
In the sweet summer of your smile. 
Summer and faith return awhile. 

AVhen erst dead boughs with budding life are swelling, 
And smiKng sides to waking earth are telling 
That spring is come— and yet I cry. 

Not unto me ! 

Once by your side — 
Within my heart the birds are carolling, 

And smiles the sky, 

I know not why — 
I only know it is when you are by. 

When summer's fruits o'erlap its flowers. 
And glow for me life's dearest hours. 
And only sweetest cares I bear, 
Yet almost doubt if I am blest, 
Thus longing with a vague unrest — 

Once by your sid.e, 

No doubts beguile — 
All hours are brighter for your smile. 



Ah ! when, like summer days, for mo 
You cease to smile, where shall I be ? 
What be my lot ? 
Unblest and drear 
Where you are not. 
Fallen my fruit, my foliage sere, 
And sunward flown the swallow dear. 
Gifted with such a gracious power, 
To make sweet Summer of my wintriest hour, 

Sunward flown ! ah ! who can know 

If we shall be : or being, woe 

Or weal be ours ! When all, alas ! 

Of life's sweet summer hours shall pass, 

Of what avail shall Christmas boughs 

Adorn for us December's brows ? 

Ah ! who shall tell ! I know but thif?, 

Once by your side 

All life is bliss. 
Parted I doubt of all but pain, 
Till you bring summer back to me again. 



THE SONG OF THE ROSE. 



Forth shone the Sun in his eplondour, 

Rod glowod tho Rose in his sight ; 
Fair lay tho garden around it, 

Glittering with flowerets so bright 
That tho Rose stood unnoticed among them ; 
But in light and in being rejoicing, 
It sung in its heart but one song : 
. Me, too, hath nature made beautiful. 
Made without power of wrong ; 
I all completeness am, 
I am all sweetness — ah ! 
Take mo and lay me, sweet, 
vC A sweet in thy sweeter breast. 

^W-~0^ '^ Take me full blown, all completeness. 

Full blown, but ah ! not o'er blown yet ; 
A chalice full fieighted with sweetness, 

With colour and perfume unflown yet. 
But the days they are passing, are passing ; 
One by one soon my petals must fall. 
Then take them and lay them, sweet, 
Sweets in thy sweeter breast, 

Now whilst thou may'st take them all. 

"Why wait'st thou, my love, oh! my goddess. 

Take thine own, as thine own give me rest ; 
Ere the days that are passing have passed, love, 

Lay love in thy lov'licr breast — 
[Not a rose but a passion-flower would'st thou ? 

Then farewell— no, not so — give me rest ; 
Lay the rose in tho passion-flower's place, love, 

And 'twill turn to one there when 'tis prest.] 



TO THE CLIMBING ROSE 



Climb, oh ! climb the'golden lattice^ 

Song of mine ; 
Climb 'till^thou dost reach her heart, 

For whom I pine. 

Cease not, lest thou lose the bliss 

For which I sigh ; 
Climb 'till thou dost touch her heart \ 

Ah ! why not I ? 



SONNET. 

[With a promised gift of a picture in which a church porch is seen 
bridg-ing- a stream ] 

How shall I ever cross, dear love, 
The river cold of your inditfereiice ? 
How find, to give irie rest at last, 
As in a quiet haven when the storms are past, 
From doubts asylum, and from fears a safe defense, 
In the pure temple of your sheltering love ? 
O, worshipped long, the temple must 

Throw me it's porch across the stream, 
Yielding its portal's keys, for sacred trust, 

I'o one it leads from earth to heaven. 
Asylum, sweeter than a heavenl}' dream. 
True Salem, to thy worshipper given ! 
Build thou the porch through which love's pathway lies, 
And bridge my entrance into paradise. 



THE IRIS. 

O flower that draws me to the water side, 

Stain'd with ricli purple as the robe of kings ; 
Yet a poor hiiinl>lc flower that ne'er the poet sings 
Beside the lily and the eglantine ; 
No rose, no queen of flowers, yet all mine, 

Stain'd as my thought with purple fit for kings ; 

Flow'r half despised, unnoted, all unsung. 
Set stiff upon thy stalk, not lightly bending. 
But bent, cpiick broke ; once broken, broke for aye, 
Yet with a sad vitality that lives, 
Blooms on, so broken, blooms, but faded too ; 
blading all swiftly if not nourish' d as thy wont, — 

Thy wont, or need— all thy thirst met; 
Coarse flow'r, and strong ; frail flow'r, whose petal lightly tears ; 

Gilded within ; symbol of trinities ; 

Gifted with sweetness to despisers lost ; 

Mystic, rich, poor, despis'd, dear flow'r ; 

Symbol of me, half strong, all weak ; 
Thy place (then blest) beside cool waters pure ; 

Yet, since aeceptant, blooming oft in dust ; 
111 found along the highway, out of place ; 

Half blooming there ; not knowing well thy place; 

111 choosing, smiling, torn, forgot! 



A PORTRAIT. 

[To an invalid lady who had received a madonna lily, 
champney roses, heliotrope and orchids.] 

Who, with the spotless lily called 
For her heaven named Jrlessedest, 
Laid blushing roses, love's own flower. 
But with a blush as fair as spake 
A love most gentle, tender, pure ; 
And with them laid blooms sweet as are 
The gracious actions of a gracious life ; 
Then sought a rare and tropic flower 
Of prized race and nature delicate ; 
Then all encinctured with a band as green 
As are the memories of good men's lives- 
Gave trifling solace to sad pain tried hours, 
But painted her to whom he gave the flowers. 



A TIMK SKRKNK. 

In younger and loss quiot days^ 
Tlic autumn loavcK I lovod did blaze 
With nul : tny life was but a maze, 
With (lashing lights along its ways. 

I>ut now, I hear the name, Irene, 
And 'tis the yellow leaf whose sheen 
J love: my lile a path Hcreno, 
With shade, where sunlight li(!S between. 



BENEDICTUS ^UI PATITUR. 



Passing at midnight down the little tangled stair, 
My lamp light falling soft on blazons there 

Where hung the armories the children loved, 

I smiled to think the tales they held with me, 

Half held for truth, still held for tlieir nobi!ity. 

And graver smiled chancing these words to see : 

Benedictus qui patitur. 

Sable the antieiit shield, and borne thereon thrice pied, 
Twin plumes of argent, ech'Uon set, 6r tied ; 

Above, for crest, the helm of one who served 
The Holy Roman Empire long, a faithful ki.ight, 
'Neath crowns plumed argent sable as for day and night. 
And underneath this legend fit bedight : 
Benedictus qui patitur. 

Godfroid the Count von Benedict, if stories stand, 
This bore on 's shield into the Holy Land, 

Leaving beldnd the wife and child he loved. 
And when the close of one long hard fought day 
Saw cross o'erborne and death struck Godfroid I y, 
He smiled, and on these words he sighed his soul away: 
Benedictus qui patitur. 

The golden lilies of the kings of France are borne 
Upon a l^ield of stainless white. Foresworn 
Or pure their souls ! who knows the soul? 
Wlien thedmad night of St. Bartholomew was o'er 
Homeless they sought asylum on a strai ger shore. 
Who fain would keep the taith their fathers held of yore. 
Benedictus qui patitur. 



And when the prehite and the crown combined 
In after years to curb their souls, behind 
They left th'asylum for a wilderness ; 
Across the sea witli single hearts they fared, 
Hunger and thirst and savage foe they dared, 
Cold and disease. Few lived ; we spring from those were spared. 
Benedictus qui patitur. 

The night wind through the casement where the roses swing- 
Stirs soft, and waves my lamp light as one questioning ; 
I know my children sleep as safe to night, 
As ne'er were paynim, zealot, priest nor king. 
We suffer not. Has then the blessiug too ta'en wing ? 
Scarce dare I sigh what some were wont to sing : 
Benedictus qui patitur. 

Shapes of the past that with the night have come, 
Find ye rae recreant? People yt.- my home! 

liaise in our hearts the standard of the past. 
Not for the faitli that best could bring them ease, 
Respect, men's smiles, our fathers suffered. What heaven please 
So let me hold. Mine be the truth that conscience sees. 
Benedictus qui patitur. ' 



WORDS FOR MUSIC. 

/ FOUR SCHOOL AND COLLEGE SONGS. 

L Boating Song. HI. The Two Bob-o'-links. 

II. Far-off Friends. IV. Kineherd's Song. 

Boating Song. 

Come comrades sing a joyous song, 
As o'er the M^aves we bound along ; 

Our voices chime, 

Our oars keep time. 
Our hearts are light and free. 

WeHl sing, we'll swig a joyous song, etc. ' 

And as we skim the waters o'er, 

As we skim the waters o^r, 
Fainter and fainter grows the shore, 

Fainter grows the shore. 

Keep time. 

Keep time. 
Keep time, 

Keep time, 

Keep time, keep time, the evening star 
Lights lip her silver lamp afar ; 
Her tender ray 
Succeeds the day 
And calls to rest and love. 

The evening star, the evening star, etc. 

Yet still we sing our joyous song, 
And o'er the waves we bound along, 

While voices chime. 

And oars keep time. 
And hearts are light and free. 

Together, together we bend upon our oars. 
Together, together we bend upon our oars. 



WORDS FOR MUSIC. 

FAR-OFF FRIENDS. 

When the honrs of day are past 

And my work is laid aside, 
Oft I watch a fading west 
Late with purple dyed. 

And I ask : Where can they be ? 
And I wonder wistfully, 
Wonder, wonder wistfully, 
Wond'ring ever, 
Asking never, 
Do they ever think of me. 

Often in the silent night, 

When the house is wrapped in sleep, 
I look out across the dark, 
Shoreward o'er the deep. 

And I ask : Where can they be ? 
And I wonder wistfully 
Wonder, wonder wistfully 
Wond'ring ever 
Asking never 
Do they ever think of me. 



WORDS FOK MUSIC. 

THE TWO BOB-O'-LINKS. 

In the bright snminor sunshine I love to be singing, 

Singing, singing, for I'm Bob-o'-lincoln ; 
With music and laughter I. keep the fields ringing, 

Rinmnc:, riiiffinc:, for I'm I>oh-o'-link. 

I hear someone calling. 

Madame? Good morning. 
What news have you for mo? 

Ah ! ... J la ha ! ha ha ! 

lla ha ha, ha ha ! I love to be jolly, 

Jolly, jolly, for I'm Bob-o'-lincoln. 
To sigh and lament and com})lain, oh, what folly ! 

I always keep laughing, I, Bob-o'-link, ... 

Bob-o'-liid<, 
Bob-o'-link, 
Bob-o'-lincoln. 

O, my heart with gladness is bubbling over, 

Bubbling over, bubbling over, bubbling over, bul)bling ovei 
I do no work and yet live I in clover, 

I live in clover, I live in clover, live in clover, in clover. 

And through the long hour when the reapers are nooning. 

Nooning, nooning, and taking their driidc, 
I swing on the grain and my pipes 1 keep tuning, 

Tuning, tuning, for — I'm Bob-o'-link. 

Bob-o'-lincoln, bob' -1 in coin, 
Ilalia! 15ob'-lincoln! 

Oh Avhat gladness. 
Banishing sadness. 
Banishing sadness 
Ever away 1 

Away, away, away ! 
On lu lu la, 
Ou lu hi. 
Away, 
Ila ha 1 
Ou lu lu, lu lu, lu lu la ! lu lu la, lu lu, . . • lulu . . . 
. . . lu. ... 



WORDS FOR MUSIC. 

THE PYREIs'EAN KINE-HERD. 

Come home inj lowing herd, 

Come home, mj kine, come home with me. 
The snn is swiftly sinking 
To his home beyond the sea, 

The birds have all ceased their singing. 
We must no longer roam ; 
The bees have hush'd their humming. 
For soon the night is coming. 
Come home, my lowing herd. 

Come home, my kine, come home. 

Haste ! Hoy ! the storm is coming, 

And the moor, and the moor, is drear and lone ; 
I see the lightning flashing 

And 1 hear, and I hear, the thunder tone. 
Haste, ere the swollen torrent 

Sweeps the worn bridge away. 
Oh, the niglit is dark and dreary. 
And my feet, my feet, are weary ; — 
But the lights of home now I see ! 

There my loved ones wait for me. 
O, the lights of home now I see, 
Where my lassie waits for me. 
Come home my lowing herd, 
Come home, my kine, with me. 
Come home, 
Come home. 



WORDS FOH MUBIC. 

FOUR MINSTREL SONGS. 

I. Molly Tkuk. 111. Mary fau away. 

II. Down IN TiiK Valley. IV. Beyond tmk stars. 



MOLLY TRUE. 
Versos written in 1851. 



Away down South wliar de live oaks wave, 

Wliar de sun shines hrij^ht, an' de cane brakes grow, 
A i-iver flows upon wliose waves 
I used to love my boat to row. 

An' dar de wax'es dey sing to lue 
De sweetest song I ever knew : 
Molly loves, she loves you well. 

She loves you dearly, loves you true. 

Yes, Molly love' dis nigger well, 

She love' me dearly, love' me true. 
An' oder darkies when dey see her. 
Wish dey had a Molly too. 

lier eyes were like de summer night, 

Or stars dat shine in heaven's clear blue. 
An' den her smile ! It seemed to say 
Your Molly loves you, loves you true. 

One eveniri', when de sun was low, 
I lay me down and shut my eye. 
An' den I dreamp' a dreadful dream 
I'll ne'er forget until 1 die. 

I dreamp' dey stole my love away. 

An' whur she gone I never knew, 
An', in the morning when I wake, 
Dey tole me dat my dream was true. 

O yes, I lov'd my Molly well, 

I lov'd her dearly, lov'd her true, 
An' somfing seems to whisper me 
Dat Molly lov'd her Sambo too. 

And, when at night de moon ride high, 
And all are wrapped in sleep but me, 
I tink I hear an angel's voice. 
It is my Molly calling me. 



[Verse added in 1«()5.] 

De morning breaks, de sun shine bright, 
De night of wrong and chains is past. 
I heer de happy ])cople say : 

De black men all are free at last. 

Ihit tho' the right to wrong be dead, 
Behind de wound de scars remain. 
Dey can to Sambo freedom give, — 
But not his Molly back again. 



i: I. I'M; V 



I W ()I(.I».S I '((I!, M1I,S1('. I 



I >(i\\ II III I III- \ ;illcy lie l;i ;;|i'c|i| li)'\ 

'I'licic w liiT(^ IIk^ Willi lliiwciH ;i^('ill l\ \Vii\f, 

W'licic .sif-liiii;.'; pijicM iJicir wiilt'li me lvcr|iiiin', 
lie m|cc|im (lie sIiiihImt (if llii- ln;iV(U 

Swcfl l\ I lie (MKilc ;il)(i\ (■ liiiii, 

A li(>\ (• liiiii, ;iImi\ (• liiiii, y \ 
McIkmm llicir MifJlS \vlii» l(»|i|'; Uill ln\c liiiii, 
\V litiiii ( lie V ^l|l;l II .sci' no iimiI c, 

Nil liiiiic ! 



(>I<)\V (-I'ililMiill i-iiMl Willi Mil: ll III iniillllll 
<«lii\V iilimiiirr ilii\M iiliir\'i' lilH j.>lil \'(<, 

(ilow ji'dldi'ii wchI, Iiim roinli inlm iiiii^i,' 
Wilt) hIit|)M (lie mIiiiiiIh r ol llir lii:i\'0. 



1[. 

Bi;tv(> arc tlio lioarts Aviiicli are most toiider, 
'I'cikKm- the licarts wliicli are most brave, 

Faitlilnl tlit^ lives wliicli life surrender, 
Ijosiii!-- the bliss tluiv die to save. 



Solt fell the (lews oCui.^'ht above him, 

Above him, above him. 
Warm tall their tears who louti; will love liiin. 

Whom they shall see no more. 

No more ! ' 

Glow erimson east with blush of morIlin,L,^ 
(Jlow summer days above his grave. 

Glow };olden west his conch adorninp;, 
Who sleeps the slumber of the braver 

Soft breathe the winds there in the southland, 
Laden'd with fragrance of Avild bay. 

Spicy with breath of Indian roses. 

Whispering above him night and day. 

He slee[)s 

Whert! tlu^ sanui stars look down : 

He sleeps. 

Sleeps. 



MARY FAll AWAY. 



[Words fok Music] 



Shall I ever see again thy sweet presence Mary, 
Shall I ever hear the voice so dear to me, 

Shall I ever stroke again thy tresses, little fairy. 
While these longing arms enfold my Mary ? ' 



Often, in the silent night, in dreams I see my Mary, 
O, she seems an angel bright, yet dear to me. 

Soft I feel upon my cheek the breathing of a fairy, 
Lo, these arms enfold at last, my Mary. 



Bnt the morning breaks at last, flown are dreams of Mary 
Far, oh far, away that form so dear to me 

Then I kneel and pray for blessings, blessings on my Mary, 
All good angels guard and bless and bring me back my Mary, 
All good angels guard and bless and bring me back my Mary. 



O my love, Mary dear to me, 

Come back love to me, Mary dear to me, 
O my love, Mar}^ dear to me, 

O, come back, my darling Mary. 



BEYOND THE STARS. 



[Words fou Music. 



I shall never see again thy sweet presence, Mary, 
I shall never hear the voice so dear to me ; 

Wliere they laid that gentle form Oh ! the shore is lonely ; 
Only there the sweet sad waves answering endlessly : 

Far away, 
Far avjay, 
Mat'ifs far away heyond the stars. 
Far heyond the sUws. 

I shall never see her form again, 
T shall never hear liei- tender voice. 
Never in these longing arms fold my gentle fairy, 
Nevermore, nevermore. Oh ! my darling Mary ! 



But the silent night hrings still ofttimes dreams of Mary, 

] am waiting hy the shore for her 1 love ; 
Lo ! alar the nearing sail brings my little fairy. 

Tenderly, O stately ship bear my love to mo. 

Fojr away, 
Far away, 
Mary'^sfar away heyond the stars. 
Far heyond the stars. 

Vaiidy I call that name so dear to me. 
Vainly stretch out my arms for that dear form. 
" Mary dwells with angels now " someone whispei-s weeping, 
" Far away, far away, far away beyond the stars." 



VVOIvHS I'OU', MUSK!. 

si<:i:i<:nai)Ks and misckij.ankoiis s()N(;s. 

Mv Si'AK. SlIAMllS MoltlAKI^. 

S(>i<"i'i,v I'lii'; NioMi' Winds. VViii'IN iiiio ()ni': I Lovi'i ih 

'riiii; S■|'ll,l,^ Niciir. Nmai: Mk. 

NiOAKI';!:, Nl'lAKlCli. SlH>IM,l>SI' 'riloil SlANIt UN ■I'lllO 

In SriiiNO-'i'iMi';. (ioi.ni'iN Staiiv-. 



My Star, 

Sl,;ir (if my koiiI, wIumi nii^Iil, ii(l(!ri in Ilit; (iriM.'uiu'nl. 

i\ii(i ('()iiiil.l(!ss ()rl)H tli(! li;iriii(>iii(!K of law proclaim, 
|)(H'|) in my soul llicy \vak(! an answci'ini;' lianiiony, 

'riii^y \vak(! IJk! answiu'int;' liarmctny ol' thy dear name. 

Mac.li sil(!nl, sphere! its courw; a|»]»oinl,(!(l circling 
Si<;iialH its ('(jIIovvh slill. 
So, wluMi l,li(! nii;lit of douht and vvronu; 
llroods o\!r my soul, whal, vval<es my sonj^' i? 
( 'haiii;(!l(!.ss and j)iii'(!, scsrtMic, alar 
Dawns thy ])nr(! Ii.i;lil, my star, my star, 
(Jhan^cl(!ss and pure, sciriiin;, alar 
Dawns hi-ii^ht my soul's swcuit lamp, my star, my stai". 

My <;uidin<^ star ! 
And when tlu; clouds ol" doubt and sorrow mMlti|)ly 

Slu! will not Icavo mc, 
K'i'W thoui;li through raull, or fate; I may not to her- lly, 
Ah, may not wini;' actross the; sky 
'J\) that swcut r(!st. 

1 know that she. will fail mo n(»t c\;n tlHJii;i;li all (ilso should lail, 
Thou^^h voids as trackl(;ss as the; sky 
My path (livid(! from liors lor aye, 
('han^olcss and pur«!, surono, alar 
SliinoB on for mo my i^uidinjj; star, 
St(!adrast, undimniM, all puro alar 
IJiirns bright my soul's sweet lamp, my star, my star. 



8EKENADE. 



Softly the night winds come 

Through the dark wood creeping, 
And tender stars look down 
Whilst thou, my love, art sleeping. 
All nature slumbers, 
Eests from its weary day's labour. 
Only my heart, 
The weary hours numbers ; 

Only my heart, 
Watches and longs for thee. 

And as the night winds come 

Fanning thy slumber, 
And from thy soft cheeks snatch 
Soft kisses without number. 
I would be night wind, 
Night wind blown no man knows whither, 
If once, but once. 
My wings would bear me thither, 

Bear me but once 
To snatch a kiss from thee. 

Lo ! now the rising wind 

All the wood is shaking, 
Wak'st thou not, my love ? 

Oh ! wake, my heart is breaking ; 
I'll ne'er forsake thee. 
Then if not storm, oh, let love awake thee ; 
Oh, wake and say 
My heart may rest on thine, love ; 

Say my worn heart 
May rest at last on thine. 



SEKENADE. 



The stilly night, the whispering wind, 

The shadows weird beneath the trees ; 
The waning moon, the drifting cloud, 

The fitful perfume on the breeze ; 
My weary heart that knows no rest ' 

'Till thou dost come, all call to thee. 

Oh ! come, my life, my love, to me, 
And clasp me fainting on thy breast. 



The night will pass, the wind will die. 
The shadows with the moon depart ; 

The perfume fade, the hour pass by 
When thou canst clasp me on thine heart. 

But I shall changeless pine 'till pressed 
Once in thine arms of circling snow, 
Oh ! come, and never let me go, 

So I may be forever blest. 



MELODY, 



When the Bilent night retums, 
And the lamp of Venus burns, 
Soft above the olive grove 
Comes the hour of silent love. 

Nearer, nearer, not a word, 

Love's sweet voice is felt, not h^ard ; 

Smile, oh tender stars above ! 

Hail, dear hour of silent love J 

When I raised my eyes to thine. 

Only trusting love in mine ; 

Thine but said, oh ! love, to me, 

Nearer, nearer let us be. 

Nearer, nearer let us be. 
Drifting barks on perfumed sea, 
While the stars smile soft above 
On the hour of silent love. 

When thine eye so soft and clear, 

Filled with passion's tender tear. 

Dropped its sweetness into mine, 

Then I knew that I was thine. 

Nearer, nearer, not a sound, 
Enter on enchanted ground. 
While the stars smile soft above 
On an hour of silent love, 



IiN iSriilNG TIME. 
I wandered in the si)ringtime 
All down a flowery lane, 

Soft airs l)lew off the lilac's breath, 
'J'heii blew it back again : 

Ah ! such another 8ptin(i;tiino 
Will never come again. 

The bobolink's soft flntiiig 
Rose liquid from the grass ; 

The air was filled with gladness — 
Captious, I cried, Alas ! 

Sure such another springtime 
Will never come to pass. 

Arliutus flowers, creeping 
Beneath the chestnut wood, 

Whispered their love in secret, 
And whisperedLove is good ; 

Such days return, ah ! never, 
Alas, 1 wish they would. 

Tlui bull frog pii)ed n)elodious, 
The cricket's chir|) was bliss ; 

What c(nild the reason be, who krxjws ? 
I only know but this : 

That day I leariuul, day of days! 
The sweetness of a kiss. 



WORDS FOR MUSIC. 

[Verses resiilting from treating a melody contrapun tally, and then following the 
indications of the music in words, which in turn create a legend, for which an ap- 
propriate date is then found.] 



SHAMUS MOHIATY ; 

OE, 

The Bells of St. Hillary. 

[An incident of the rebellion of 1798.] 

Brave rang out the bells of Saint Hillary, 
Kang the tnne puts a man in the pillory, — 

Erhi go hragh 

Sounded afar. 
O that swate darlin' tune, Erin ffo braffh ! 

It rang, and rang, and waked up the peasantry. 
"Who dare ring that tune for a pleasantry ? 

Erin go bragh ! 

Troth, don't ye knaw 
His life's in danger, rings Erin go hragh? 

Came the squire and swate Misthress Milligan, 
Came his Riv'rance Father O'Killigan, 

Quick came they all, 

Great folk and small. 
Drawn by the music of Erin go bragh. 

The hunters' horns now took up the melody, 
Bay'd the hounds as if scintin' a felony : 

Men hang to-day, 

Not far away. 
For less than for ringin' out Erin go bragh. 

O, 'twas fine. But woe to swate Shamus now ! 

" Shamus, Shamus, come fi-om that belfry-mow," 
Call'd now the neighbors all, 
Came his swate mother's call, 

Minglin' with hers that he loved best of all. 



'■ Coino down, como down, yo madcap, tho bailiff's iiiou 
IFoio'll bo stnii<^ht. Ye'll find to ycr sorrow liion 

Yc'll rue the day 

Ye dared to play 
On those danincd bells blessed Jt'rln cjo hragh.^^ 

Sliairuis, Sliiiiriiis, iij) in the belfry tall, 
JN'ivei', iiiv(;r luuidcd Iheir words at all. 

l^'ai- and away, 

Kang ont that day, 
"^I^liat tinK! the Saxon hat(!S : RVin (jo Jmujli. 

'' Oh ! boy, the bailiff's men (;ome ! And the soldiery, 
Out tiie town <^at(! ! Och, soldicirs wid mualcetry !, 

Troth, don't ye luiur'^ 

Siii'(! tiiey'i-e close here ! 
They're niy,h at the lower door ! Yer lost, ShamuB dear !" 

No, not yet. lie swings from the belfry tall, 
Down the ivy, over the churchyard wall ; 

V\\.\' and aw!i,y, 

SliauniK llint (l:i\' 
Flew, like the; wind, sh<jutin' hyriii (/<> hva<jh. 

He flies, 'mid cries : " The hounds, are they after him ? " 
"No, not yet, the saints are protectin' liiiri." 

" Erin go bi'agh " 

fie shouts back from afar, 
" Ireland forev(!i', and Krin go hragh. /" 

But see ! the lioiinds 1 Good Ood, they arc on his track ! 
Call them f)ff. Too late ! They are at his back. 

A shot '{ From the town ! 

Oh, Shamus goes down. 
Shot, toi-n by <logs, cryin' Erin go hragh. 

" Whip them off. Oh, sure he is breathin' still." 

" No. Ibi'll breathe niver more now, do what ye will." 

IVjrn, yet so fair, 

I'oor Shanuis lies there. 
Dead, for a tune ! His dirge : JlJrin go hragh. 



O, sweet Shandon, green be jer flow'rj meads, 
Gently flow jer waters ; of gallant deeds 

Whisper ye low, 

Where'er ye flow. 
Forget not how Shamus rang Erin go hnigh. 

Oh ! Shamus boy, my sad tears are fallin' whin 
E'er thy brave sad fate I'm recallin' thin, 

Shamus mavourneen, 

Shamus asthore, 
Savourneen deelish ! Och, cregan oh ! 

Swate echoes, 'round that old belfry stealin' 
Sound ofttiraes like bells softly pealin' 

And, by that shore, 

Now evermore. 
Hovers the music of Erin go hragh. 

Loud ring out, ye bells, from yer clatter-mow, 
Ring what tunes ye may, — 'tis no matter now ; 

Erin go hragh, 

Erin go hragh, 
Whate'er yer tune, we hear Erin go hragh. 

Ring loud, ring soft, ye bells, but ye ever will 
Ring a dirge to Shamus, his last words still : 

" Erin go hragh, 

Erin go hragh, 
Ireland for ever, and Erin go hragh.''^ 



WHEN THE ONE I LOVE IS NEAR ME. 

When the one I love is near me 
Never vexings come me near, 
Never care, nor ever sorrow ; 
Far is qi^estioii, doubt, and fear. 

Yerdant then the fields, tho' winter ; 
Birdliiigs carol ; all things sweetly 
Ghaunt the endless hymn of natnre, 
When the one I love is near nie, 
When the one I love is near. 



WORDS FOR MUSIC. 

SHOULD'ST THOU STAND ON THE GOLDEN STAIE. 

Should'st thou stand on the golden stair 

Of Heaven's high battlement, 
And from that starry height look down 
On thy past self afar, 
Think'st thou that ne'er one pitying thrill 
Athwart the joy of ]>ardon still 
Would steal ? 
Who made thee gave each longing sweet. 
Each joy and doubt and fear. 

In yielding, or in thwarting, wrong ? 
For which is pardon giv'n ? 



WOKDS FOR MUSIC. 

FIYE DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 

I. Cradle Song. III. The Adoration of the Magi. 

II. A Ranter's Htmn. IV. Under the Crucifix. 

V. At Whitsuntide. 



Cradle Song. 

Sleep my baby, sweetly sleep, 

Thy mother watch will o'er thee keep, 

Bending o'er the little bed 

Pillowing thy tiny head. 

Care and trouble, though they come, 
Though thou wand'rest far from home. 
Thy mother's heart, I still will keep 
A mother's heart. Sleep, baby, sleep. 



Sleep my baby. "While the throng 

Of angels hymn for aye their song 
Before Him, still one angel keeps 
Watch where my little baby sleeps. 

Oh ! my heart, be still, be still. 

Whate'er comes will be His will. 
Sleep my baby, wdiile I keep 
My mother watch. Sleep, baby, sleep. 



A RANTER'S HYMN. 

Wide o'er all the grave yards 
Sounds the trump of doom. 
All must rise ; 
Some to the skies, 
Some sink to gloom. 

Dreadful Judge Eternal, 
Grant me that I may 
Find in thee 
Security, 
Ere that awful day, 

Ere that day of mourning. 
Ere that day of woe. 
that sorrow 
No to-morrow 
E'er shall know. 

Who shall stand before him 
When the Judge shall sit, 
And what's been 
Well hid 's seen. 
All in dooms-book writ. 

All the mean excuses, 
All the lies and feints ? 
Excuses lame 
Won't hide their shame. 
It blacker paints. 

Hell gapes full of torment 
For the sinner then, 
And the fire 
Mounting higher 
Hastes to feed on men, 



Feed and feed fv)rever, 
Never burn them up. 
Tlie trninpet sounds, 
And all on hounds 
To drink their cup, 

Drink the cup of fire ; 
And the burning lake 
Spreads out wide 
On every side. 
Not one shall escape. 

The eleventh hour soundeth, 
'Tis not yet too late. 
That hour is past. 
Now sounds the last 
Dread hour of fate. 

O'er all the graves it soundeth, 
The midnight of the world, 
And God forsaken 
All must waken 
And to hell be hurled. 



High o'er all this anguish, 

Hymning joyous songs, 

Redeemed choirs 

Strike their lyres 

In countless throngs. 

These are they have washed 

Their robes the Lamb's blood in. 
And there on high 
Will sing for aye, 
Cleansed from all sin : 

To the King eternal, 
To the Son Divine, 
To the Dove 
That broods in love, 
Sujperiiol Trine, 

Endless, endless praises 
Sound along the shore 
Of thy sea, 
Eternity, 
Noio and evermore. 



Now and evermore, 

0, now and ever more ! 
Can I bear 
That not to share, 
That sweet high joy ? 

Take me, friend of sinners, 
Cleanse me from my siti. 
And let be 
My part with thee 
Evermore. Amen. 



THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI. 

f A Jesu-worshippor's Hymn at tho season of the EpiphanyJ 

The gentiles shall come to thy light, and Kings to the brightness of 
thy rising. Isaiah xl : 5 

And hehold there came wise men, saying : we have seen his star in 

the east and have come to worship him and they preseiited unto 

him gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh. Matt, ii : 11. 

A strain of stiang-e and sad, but sweet music ; then follows the hymn. 

Wise, from afar, I come, 

Following, dear Lord, thy light, my star. 
O let it lead me, lead me to thy feet ! 
So bring one gentile home. 

Kings to thy rising came. 

So, King of kings, I come to thee. 

Yielding free homage at thy life-throned feet. 
Flame life ! my life inflame. 

I too, as gold, to thee, 

JNanght keeping back, my best would bring; 
Snccoring all sorrow in His name who said, 
So do ye unto me. 

And when all j)rayers go up, 

Parthean and Mede and farthest Ind, 
Nortii land and south land, with them, O may mine 
Rise from that incense cup. 

Then let my whole of life, 

Fragrant with prayer and deeds as myrrh, 
Be my last offering. Saviour, at thy shrine. 
[So come, sweet end of strife ] 




(Linps found under s crucifix on the head-board of an 
iincient bed. 

At tliy feet, wounded Christ, 
I would lie 
As the seed beneath the harrow. 
Self negate, for love thou diest ; 
Let rae die 
So to self. pierce the marrow 
Of my rest with love's sweet pleading, 
Love divine, for others bleeding, 
Love of love's rewards unheeding, 
'Till the sky 
Break where Jesus' lambs are feeding. 



VL 



AT WHITSUNTIDE. 

Spirit of good in all the past, 

Men ever leading upward to the light, 
Spirit of aspiration for the worthiest part, 
Oh, rest on me thy benison, — 
in all thy being manifold, beyond or in our ken,- 
On every act and word and thought. 
On every consequent, and on us all, 
Now and forevermore. Amen. 



Upward to the azure zenith 

Lark-like rose the glorious tone ; 
Fell in waves far down the vale, 

Where listening pines made answering moan. 

Oh ! 'twas wondrous ! Hark, I cried, 

Nought so beauteous can endure ; 
Lo ! upborne on eagles' pinions 

It soared on, glorious, strong and pure. 

While I stood in listening wonder 

I recalled forgotten years. 
Tones long hushed — than these more tender? 

Straight the tone changed — whence these tears ? 

Doubting still, though moved, I said, 

" In sordid souls, heroic fires 
Voices have had power to wake." 

The song sang. " Shuman's Grenadiers." 

I am vanquished ! It hath done ; 

Let none deny but envious churls. 
All that voice can do, vain words ! 

I heard with trembling flesh, " King Charles." 

Through the window, through the garden, 

Out upon the terrace, came 
Floating wild the wondrous voice, 

Ever changing, still the same. 

Benedictus, oh ! well named ! 

Heaven blessed thou ! its choice 
Out of myriads, to possess 

The garden's sweetest flower — thy voice. 

Alma Mater, mea Mater ! 

When I come back to thy rest. 
When the great blue dome rounds o'er me 

And the sun is in the west. 



When o'er all the broad green campus 
Tender broods a trembling light, 

And the faint, pale moon above me 
Waits the coming of the night ; 



When the dear trees stand back, fearing 

Skies to hide, God made so fair. 
And 1 drink in the great breath 

Which I find, ah ! only there. 

When I, pausing, lest I fright 

From my feet the tiny birds, 
Look down o'er the pastures, fair 

With homeward wending, silent herds ; 

Look down o'er the foliage hiding 

The broad breast of the ancient river, 
Where the lovers' boats are gliding 

Ever, for love lives forever. 
• 
When the distant little city's 

Drowsy hum has died away. 
And sunlit fii-es on slender spires 

Mark the closing of the day. 

When between the purple mountains 

In the gorge, the fiery orb 
Slowly sinks, and dying, sends 

A liash of glory over all. Y 

When he hovers on the brink. 

Half is seen, is wholly lost. 
When up from his amber-bed 

The lights rush forth an arrowy host. 

AVlien the clouds are heaped up rubies, 

Isles of fire in sapphire seas ; 
When the glory tempts belief 

* " Raphael hath found the keys." 

Alma Mater, mea Mater, 

In thy bounty, I find lack. 
If returning to thee, never. 

Sounds that voice my welcome back. 

Mother, when my life is ended. 

Let my head rest on thy bi'east ; 
Let thy green svv^ard be my cover, 

When the sun is in the west. 

* Raphael, the guardian angel of humanity, forever seeks the lost keys of the 
gates of Paradise. 



On the longest day of summer 

Let his latest sunset ray 
On me fall, where I lie waiting 

For the never-ending day. 

When my god his rest is seeking 
Let them lay me, too, to rest ; 

Heap the red earth warm around me, 
Range the sods above my breast. 

Then, when the last word is spoken, 
Let the weeping mourners stay. 

If there be such, while that sweet voice 
Chanteth for me a last lay. 

Song of joy, or song of anguish, 
Song of care, or song of rest. 

Be the song she sings above me 
Whate'er pleaseth her the best. 

When 'tis ended, let who loves me 
Each one flower lay on the sod : 

Then to silence let all leave me — 
Leave my soul alone with God. 

Choirs of angels, choirs of angels 
Rank on rank ascending high, 

Bending o'er like corn in autumn 
Bear me shouting through the sky ! 

Mater ! Mater ! hand outstretched — 

Form invisible to me — 
Leading where the great veil hideth 
• What no human eye can see ! 

Faintly, faintly, a wild earth-cry 
With the angelic choirs is blending, 

Benedictus, benedictus 
Jiiiletta's voice ascending. 



TERRIBLE AS AN ARMY WITH BANNERS. 

Cant vi :4. 
" Oh, they have a terrible beauty, those faces from over the sea.'' 

(Mks. Huovvning ) 

Over the crest of the hill gleamed the flash of their 
lances, 

And in front of them, borne like a banner, the sound of 
the army advancing. 

And the tramp of their horse and a sound as the 
hrcathing of many, 

Came hushed on the fresh breath of morning in the 
stillness of summer. 

And })rescntly seen on the crest was the forefront ad- 
vancing in order, 

In the terrible beauty and order of lines and battalions 
and columns j 

Not a mob without ibi-m and umnarshalled, but a pa- 
geant majestic and rhythmic, 

Which swept down the slope, coming towards us sIoav, 
like a river of lava 

Sent Ibrth from some mighty volcaiK^ resistless and 
solemn in beauty. 

Now wo distinguish the cannon and the men on the 
caisons behind them, 

Riding roughly, and some of them laughing, some si- 
lent, and some riding friendly. 

With their arms locked around one another ; 

Or the cavalry riding in order, and many abreast in 
the breadth of the road ; 

And the flash of their arms and their helmets ; and the 
flags of the guides and the pennants ; 

And the stream of the infantry endless, their officers 
riding in silence ; 



And llio ciddrs ol rcf'iiiiciil s wiir worn ; mimI Mk^ Mciifli^l 

mill _L',i>li I ol I Ik* I>;i lids ; 
A lid I III' rli;dli'ii!.';iii;^" M;ii-(' (if I lirir I riiiii|ir| s, I Ii;i( wnkn 

nil till' rrliiiCH or died on llic iiioiiiil ;ii iim, 
VVIiilr low I lll'i)ltliili;^S liiiisir;d lilli'd .ill tlii' ;iir I'ldiii j ||<i 

ruit'sl}iii"^l»Oli(liiii;'. 



And llir sun lli.it. Ii.id liddi'ii lor lioiiis li.iH' xi'ilrd in 

I lie iiiisis ol' I lie iiioiiiiii;^';. 
l>ioki' Imili ill llir lidliii'ss ol" jj^'lory, liiokr lull on IIki 

;inii>' .•id\;iiiriii^'. 
And ;.',loiilii'd :i\\ in Jiis sidclnjor, iis llic iciinlcrs of old 

iisfd lo |nrtiir(i, 
An: IV I'd III mcH'iildi' s|dciidoi', llir i nnii iiii'ialili' IiomIh 

of Hid lllrssiMJ. 
And \\ liilr I stood w :i I ill iii}'; 1 1 ml \ ision, 1 1:1111 ion ions iind 

I'll \ I liliiir ill li(';i III \ , 
'I'lio Moiind of till' triiiii|irls dird on llir iiioiiiil;iinM, (lio 

Hound of I Lr I iiiiii|M'(s died ill llic lores In, 
And tlir li:inds sounded forlli n j^ical, (•|ioi;il, hiicIi <ih 

Hoiinds in Si., rrln's ;il. |i];islrr, 
And sohs rose in my Iliid:il :uid InoKc IVoiii nm in n 

iiiiilc cry of |i:iiii. ( )n ;i, sudden 
My limits seemed |,o r;iil In siipiioil me, iind I ciniij.;- 

w lieie I slood, iind IIk^ ;iiiiiy went \)\ me. 
VVIiile I clnii,v; 1,0 IIm^ r:iil :ind I he iuniy wciil, hy m<^, 

m\' soiil rose lo (!od in l:li;i,iil<s;^i vin;^' I 
< Ml ! I he |);iiii ol' I h:il: s\\(ict.ncss, I h:i,l, splinidor, l.lnit. (lay 

l.lnit iiicrr;ililc nioiiieiil.. 



Such was the power of rliythm, 
Of mystic harmonious numbers, 
And suoli was tlie terrible beauty 
Of ail army with banners! 



I But hist night I saw thee in a dream, Oh ! thou dear one, 
Fairest of all on this earth, Oh, my lost one, 
Passed now the stars beyond, 
And lo ! thou wert more beautiful.] 



AS I S A I L E D, A S I S A I L E D. 

As I sailed, as I sailed 
The boundless main. 
Sailing lonely, 
Jusf belore the evening star 

Rose afar, 
Whi'e yet the day was nearly done. 
And red the waves were in the sun, 
And the air was balmy, 

Lo ! atar 
A fnll sailed ship, 
Looming through the purple air. 



Then I lu'ard the beating, beating, 
Of" my great ship's heart, 
And all her sails filled out responsive, 
And the wiiite sails in the sun. 
Like to sails of gold they shone, 
And the ships were nearing, nearing, 
Nearing through the sunny air. 
Fragrant all the zephyrs blowing, 
Fragrance each to each bestowing, 
As from far 
We full sailed shii)s 
Were nearing, through the purple air. 
Now they "towered, they towered. 
Her stately mast trees, 
As gleaming spires, 
And all her spars and tangled cordage 
Were singled out against the sky 
As she came so nigh, so nigh. 



And the narrowing seas between, 

Redder in the sunset shone, 
And then a signal flag was seen, 
Then came a cry, 
Faint and far off 
Though we seemed so nigh, 
And through tlio trumpet we called back 
S?llut to the ship saluting- 



When my heart was beating, beating, 
And my limbs were trembling, longing, 
Fear and heaven in the meeting, 
Wonder, love and longing thronging 
Upward, struggling with my breathing, 
Fancy's possible me wreathing 
With its formless hopes and tremblings, 
Was the gold light in the skies 
But the glamour in mine eyes. 
And the sudden flung-out signal 
But the red flag in my cheek, 
And love's ringing in mine ears 
The only trumpet ? 



Nearer in the golden even, 
But we two 'twixt sea and heaven ! 
0, how tender is the light ! 
Day '"s dying into night, 
Day is yielding to the night. 
Nothing now past joy or sorrow, 
Nothing yestern or to-morrow. 
All is in abeyance ; 

Even thought 
Stops a moment, for this moment 
So with possible is fraught, 

Even thought 
Stops a moment. 



0, t ho iiwo coininonciii};- Hcvssion ! 
0, the l()ii};iii^ (or conlossioM ! 
TiMi(l(M" li(»|)c^ of solium coiicc^ssioii, 
Yt'l. (lislrlisl, ()l";ill piorcssioii ! 
(>, llu) thrill lu'liiro possivssioii ! 
0, ihe svvccliK'Ms ol" self cession ! 
0, coino down, dv.w inirph' \;i|)ors, 
(^losii around us, close around us ; 

So sui'round us 
Tliai tlie sky may never know ; 
Shut out from us s(>a and sky. 
In (hy misty perfunuMl li;.;'ht 
Hide us, till tJie comini;- ni,i;lit 

l*'rom all sij;'lit, 
Wra|) UH in his <2,ra(uous veil ; 
''i'ill his veil indid<i;eni covers 
All the s(>a,, 
As j^'iMcious he ; 
Hide, i) hide, m\' royal lovers. 



II. 

When the midnijj^ht stars wore shiniuf;;, 
Sido by sido the ships reclining, 
Lay at rest upon tho ocoan, 
Rocked by "\vav(>s in iinisun; 
Notliin,a; hopini;-, nothini;- fearins:;, 
Nothin;^ cai'inij::, not hini:; shariniij:;, 
Past tho h()j)OS and ioars that thronp;iMp:, 
IMirill, tho svvoot unknown adorning' ; 
Past the doubt, and past tho longing. 
I^]ac.h was known and know tho othor, 
lOach had (bund and lost a lovor, 
Kacli had memory swoot forever. 



III. 

After longest night tlio morning, 
After sweetest dark, adoniinc:: 
Comes the rosy light of morning, 
All the eastern sky adorning. 
From my prow the parting spray 
Sparkles in returning day. 

Neither scorning, 

Nor yet mourning ; 
All the past is far away, 
All our tliought is on our way, 
On the journey of to-day. 
Bright the deck beneath my feet, 
And the morning is so sweet 

With every breath, 
1 ask if sorrow pain or death 
Can ever come to me. 
Above the horizon hangs afar 

The morning star, 
Paling in the growing light. 
So, as splendors past take wing, 
The coming splendors come, 
I sing 

And know no care ; 

All life is fair, 

The past is dear, 

The present here, 
1 greet the future without fear, 

And onward sail ; 
Far as the eye can reach, 

On evei'y side 

A tossing piano. 
Trackless and grey the billows lie. 
Only my bark 'twixt sea and sky. 



IV. 

Yet, when the sunset comes again, 
Sailing upon the jasper plane, 
A sudden glamour in mine eyes 
Makes tender hued the sea and skies. 
Soft airs breathe perfumes, and again 
I am not lonely on the main ; 
Bound outspread from some far-off shore, 
Stately the stranger comes once more. 

With tender thrill 

in memory still 
Her rounded sails are seen, 
And still, 

But softer hued, 
'llie waves run rod between. 



V. 

Long years have passed; from shore to shore 
My bark has tossed or voyi\ged sure, 
Of perils past, of splendors seen. 

Long is the record, and of praise and blame; 
On what has been 
1 dare not cast 
The doubt of shame; 
Sacred is every blessing of the past. 

Dear all the joy ; 
^o I'i iiie longing' passion of that kcjvi- 

A thrnp* for vevyrenc'e. 
"i hat once found; tlivill'Avas Leaven to ivie, 

And reverently 
Sometimes I think if heaven thetvbe, 
We two shall meet, 
As thw shall 2;raet, 
And sail together on the jasper sea. 
Ah ! heaven were not to voyage for aye 
Only m}^ bark tAvixt sea and sky. 



WEIGHING. 

[Egisene. old, lo(i.] 

When longings liinnonr'd, thwarted. 
Have robbed me of my beauty, 
And feasts long since all ended 
Have left but trace of blame, 

Moody, I weigh 
The past against the present — 
The wheat, once mine, devoured, 
The husks that still remain. 

Yet, still I ask, 
The dear lost past reviewing, 

Sacred in this, 
That mine it was so sweet, 

What were my gain 
If, with sad self denying, 

I had refused, 
Knhungered to eat ; 

I had refused. 
When I did thirst, to drink 'i 

Or, what ray gain, 
Man's law for God's misplacing. 

Though I were filled, 
Had I essayed the quelling, 

Nature's sweet thirst 
With draughts I did not long for, 

Heaven given hunger 
With that which was not bread ? 



What were my gain, 
E'en thoug'h 1 had been saving 
As I have been spendthrift, 

Standing here 1o day? 

What were my gain, 
Thongh barns were plenty, 

I having lost 
The power to enjoy? 

Or now, wherefore better 
Were it, when my tear drops, 

Let I them fall, 
Must fall o'er youth departed, 

That they should fall 
Art well o'er chances wasted ; 
The past, the past — the future, 

Chances to come no more? 

What past soe'er, tiiey fall 
Alike o'er youth departed. 

O'er manhood's love days gone. 

Is it not better 
To have burned tlian wasted ? 

Is it not belter 
Love spent to be than miss love ? 

Is it not better 
To lose than ne'er to have ? 

Love's fragrant oil, 
Life's dear lamp enriching, 

Is it not better 
To have used than wasted ? 

Or is it better 
To save to drv avvav ? 



Loving and losing, 
Still is it to be richer 
Than love ne'er possessing. 

Still to sutler loss ; 
He who ne'er possesses 

Suflers double loss. 

Standing upon 
The loveless land's drear threshold, 

What were my gain, 
To hear a voice repeating : 

Lo ! the summer past, 
And lo ! the harvest ended, 
And you, you have not reaped, 

You have not even gleaned. 

Not even gleaned, 
Whom gods had made to gather ! 

Not even gleaned. 
Whom gods had made to reap ! 

Save them O tender shepherds, 
The lambs of life sweet guiding, 
Save them at life's sad ending, 

From such a dreary fate. 
Me too, ye gods, still save ye 

If not, alas, too late. 



WHEN THESE WINTEK NIGHTS AliE O'ER. 

When these winter nights are o'er, 
I shall be 
Far away, where, far away, 
When the winds breathe off the shore, 
Far out to sea 
They bear the fragrance of wild bay 
And citron groves and palm fring'd woods. 

Where swing sweet ropes of emerald 
From tree to tree, 
That star set be 
With countless perfnm'd chalices 

Of golden jessamine. 

• When here along this rugged coast 
The storms beat wild and waves are tost 
High into air, 
Old ocean there 
Will gather all his forces slow 
In solemn swells that heave and flow 

Majestic, rhythmic, far between 
And roll in grandly fi'om far out to sea 
Unerring to their destiny, 

Impelled by some vast thought unseen 
Their caves of coral to forsake 
And, when these winter nights are o'er. 
There, far away, 
On some sweet day, 
To heave and swell and comb and break 
In thunder musical along the strand 
And die to silence in that perfum'd land. 

Ah ! when these winter nights are o'er. 
Not e'en the self -same stars will hang- 
Above us, thee and me. 
For me the southern cross will spangle heaven. 
On thee, as now, this pole star coldly gleam. 

And e'en this moon, whose lance-like rays, 
Reflected back from countless crystals of this endless snow 
Makes path of silver to the far off sea, 
To thee as now a silver disk will seem, 
A shield of argent on an azure fleld, 
A blazon of some radiant race 
Painted on heaven's changing face. 
For me 'twill hang a glittering ball, 



Sphered, effulgent, dropping out of heaven. 
Orbed complete, suspeiulod there in space. 
Hung far below the vaulted sky. 

All will be different there, O love. 

Around, above, — within ? 
While here the hurrying crowds with thee. 
The interests, cares, effacing me, 
1 there shall wander on, ah ! ilear. 
Thy tender image ever near ; 
Careless of all but that from thee 
I still must wander silently. 
Far from thy thoughts, O love, as thee ; 
Always alone, apart from men, 
Or still alone, though holding then 
Converse, in accents strange to me, 
With strangers grave that dreamily, 
Aindess, stdl pass life's fragrant hours 
Drifting among those perfumM bowers. 

And wilt thou then be mine, I dear as now. 

When these winter nights are o'er ^ 
1 cannot know, dear love, I cannot know. 
Ihit this I know that 1 am present now, 

I thine, thou mine, this hour our own. 

O, lose it not. Love's hour is come, 
The cup of love is full, love's rose full blown, 
O, lay thy lips, twin roses, upon mine. 
[All fires burn fiercer in this frosty air — 
Tliy kiss is warmer for the cold without. J 
So ; clasp me closer in thy tender arms, 
Thy breast to mine, till 1 am lost in thee. 
Make we this nu:>ment safe and past all harms. 
Past chance of loss, a loving memory. 
Ah, when these winter nights are o'er, 

A perl'unrd memory. 

The moments tly with winged feet. 

The driver speeds his horses fleet ; 

Unseen, hears he our pulses beat ? 

No, we are safe, alone, unseen. 

Close cnrtain'd, warm. So, nought between 

Thy touch aiul mine, my fair, my fair. 

O, hold me, hold me darling, there. 

[Oh ! if to feel our hearts thus beat 

i*>e sin, why was it made so sweet ?] 



REST. 

Day al'tcr day I waiidrred lovtli ; 
1 wandered Smith a' d wandered North, 
T Avauderinl l^ast and wandered West, 
But no Avliei-e found a place of rest, 

Mv worn heart wandered up and down, 
And found no place to lay it down ; 

No place of blissful peat'eful rest, 
As on some fond and tender breast, 
To lay it down and rest, 
Antl rest. 

Since North and South and East and West 
1 turned, and found no place of rest, 
In uiy d(^s])air to deatli I cried ; 
Death ! since unto me denied 

Is rest, eoine thou ! thou bringst to me 
Oblivion, not eternity. 

I cried, and i'wnn amid th(! blest. 
One comiuix, clothed in _a,-littering vest 
Spoke, pointing upward, Rest, 
Lo! Rest. 

Now day by day I go me forth, 
And wandering South, and wandering north, 
And wandering East and wandering West, 
ILvve ever with me phice of rest. 
What I had sought around, above 
Now have I found a home of love. 

Careless of care, serenely blest, 
Upon my Saviour's tender breast, 
Trustful I lie and rest, 
And rest. 



DESPONDENCY. 



" Shed no tear, shed no tear. 

The flowers will bloom another year." 

So the poet sang, and meant 

Cheerful words with hope intent. 

Yet cheerful words they're not to me, 

For I ask where shall I be 

When the spring will come again',? 

The flowers will bloom ; will I remain ? 

If to-morrow or to-day, 

1 should die and pass away, — 

Earth to earth, upon a clod 

Heap the mould and lay the sod, 

Then turn away and let him rot, 

His aims, his hopes, himself forgot. 



TII1<: (MIRISTIAN CIlUlUMr. 

'PIi(> ])nYr i'liiltl rolls llu> snow hull in thr lair snow. 

It u'atliors and <;to\vs. OIIum's assist. 
JJye and \^yv it is so cuniluM-ous and lu\ivy that it 

i;-atluM's, not oidy tlio \)nvo snow, hnt ninrh soil. 

It is no lon,L;-iM- a snow hall, tliou,i;-li it passos forsnch; 

Nor could the pure child any loi)i;cr push it or rcco^nr/.o it. 
Its wci,L;ltt wouUl crush him if he fell under it. 



(Frum AloBsandro da Vaiaora.) 

TO BENEFICENCE. 

Come thou. The tears are fallen, the complaining's done, 

The burial of Love is runi>-, 

The victory of Time is won, 
And Love has fallen, and Love's requiem's sung, 

And time goes on ; 
And life has yet a space For me unfilled. 

Unfilled for me who loved so well, so well ! 
[So well or ill, 1 ask not ; that is past. 
Time brought the love, then took the love away, 
Taking all love in taking power to love. 

To love and win love ever back again. | 

• 

Fade far away, barge of the stately sails ; ^ 

Fade far away islands of perfumed rest. 

Rest or unrest ye can not come again. 

Fade far away. Can ne'er return % Then fade. 

[Bidden, or not, love's empire fades away.| 

Come blessings to the Avorld, blessings for each, for all ! 
All good life gave me I for all would seek ; 
All pain life brought me, that from others shield, 
While life goes on. 
While life has yet a space for me unfilled. 



FIRST OF THE TRAIN. 

OF DUTY. 

[From Alessandro da Vamora.] 

First of the train, — best gift of all, that most, — 
Most would 1 break all barriers down 
Fold it from others, did I do Tlis woi-d 
Bids me to do as I would be done by. 
I may not hide the lesson of my life. 

Love is life's best, beside which all is dross ; 

And love is holiest in holiness. 

Best when most true to nature, each to each. 

And howe'er differing from prejudg'd dream. 

How differing from all men's spoken thouo-ht. 

That love is best which blesses most. 

Most satisfies, and stills the soul with perfectness. 



SONNET. 

When in mj happy home, wliich one alone, 
A^all these years, can make complete with joy, 
I sup on fish, come thoughts I haste to drive 
Out from my mind, if that I can. I thrive 
On food, in home, both bought by suffering, — 
Nor mine. God of the iish and vestal, I 
Dare not thee question. No, 1 ask not why 
Nature and art are built on suffering, — 
My body, home where times I joyous sing 
All things forgetting but this joy : I live, 

And one I love o'er others lives with me. 
Yet did man's art, thy will, find ways to give 
Means, without pain or loss to aught, to live, 
Fled were sad thoughts and I could only sing. 



VESTALITY. 

(I*'ii)m Al<issiiiulii> (III ViiiiuiiH.) 

VrnAfA : 

I (lid not say that Vcstality was not; ofh^ii j)rororal)lii lo Mar- 
riai;-c ; hul, I say tliat whcM-o Vcslality is a riiiulaiiuMitiiiu lo 
MaiTiai!;c. 
If I must 1)0 Vestal that you may bo Marriod, 
I go to convents, thebotan or other, 
Lost the vale be o'er-poopled, the family fund 
(Irow too small for pride, coml'ort, — whatci'er value in Marriajj^c, 
If I be the loser that you be the i>-ainer, 
t must i;jo childless that you know your children. 
Society's oajn built on ])ersonal losses, 
To some all the i^-ains, aiul to some all the losses, — 
Well, 'tis well for the i!;ainers, — but hard for the victims. 



THE DREAMERS. 

[the accused testifv in turn.] 
The Arch-communist: 
I did not dream of a country where there was no sabbath ; 

but I dreamed of a country whore the sabbath was made for man, 
and not man for the sabbatli. 

A Jesu-worshipper : 
I did not dream of a country where there were no Institutions ; 
but I dreamed of a country where institutions were vahied for 
what they were worth. I dreamed of a countiy wliere means 
were not mistaken for ends. 

A Radical : 
1 did not dream of a country where there was no marriag-e ; 

but I dreamed of a country where uiarria<2;e was honored and val- 
ued for the certainty it i>-ave as to the fatherhood of chil- 
dren and the provision thus secured for their maintenance. 

An advanced thinker : 
I. did not dream of a country where there were no vestals ; 

but I dreamed of a country wliere vestality was not considered in 
itself either a merit or a demerit. 

An old statesman : 
1 did not dream of a country where there were no morals ; 

but I dreamed of a country where morals were looked upon and 
valued as means, not ends. 

A Humanitarian : 
1 did not dream of a coinitry wliere there was no hope of heaven ; 
but I dreamed of a country where all behaved as well as if the}' 
were in heaven. 

A Conservative : 
I did not dream of a countiy where there were no changes ; 

but I dreamed of a country where the changes were improvements. 
Nor did 1 dream of a country where there were no improvements ; 
but I dreamed of a country where mere changes were not mis- 
taken for improvements. 

A tiresome person : 
I did not dream of a country where there was no luxury ; 

but I dreamed of a country where luxury consisted in the absence 
of disagreeable things, and where " glory " (display and the 
like) was considered vulgar, and waste stupid, and vulgar 
and stupid things disagreeable. 

A Gentleman of the old school : 
1 did not dream of a country where there was no press ; 

but I dreamed of a country where newspapers, books, etc., fol- 
lowed much the same rules of good breeding as individuals, 
and were no more intrusive, spying, ])ersonal, abusive, tattling, 
detractive, indulgers in questions or comparisons than the 
best bred individuals. 



A traveller : 
I did not dream of a couiitr^' where there were no railroads ; 

bat I dreamed of a country where railroads were without noise, 
jar, dust, danger, incivility, door slamming, bad air, long walk 
at stations, no prompt delivery of luggage, or close and conven- 
ient correspondence with other vehicles ; I even dreamed 
that each car in the train, like each camel in a caravan, 
might carry such burden as its individual master chose, and 
at such profit to him as he was individually satisfied with. 

One who had been mistaken for a thief : 
I did not dream of a country where there was no police ; 

but I dreamed of a country where the police prevented crime with- 
out abusing criminals, or others. 
I dreamed of uses, not abuses. 

An old Superior Court Justice : 
I did not dream of a country where there were no courts; 

but I dreamed of a country where courts of conciliation preceded 
and, by keeping the combatants apart, generally evitated, 
often by the services of one man or woman only, at mere nom- 
inal cost, all a])i)eal to other courts or arbitrators. 

I dreamed, not of what is abitrary, but of Avhat is reason- 
able, and so is convincing, and so is conciliatoi'y. 
I dreamed of the ART of Peace, not War. 

A Thoughtful Jailor : 
I did not dream of a country where there were no convicts ; 

but I dreamed of a country where convicts might earn all they 
could, and at any employment they chose (compatible with 
keeping them sequestered from harming the community by 
crime), and might make such honest use of their earnings as 
they thought proper. 

I dreamed, not of vengeance ; but of protecting the com- 
munity. 
And I even dreamed of placing convicts in conditions most 
adapted to help them to become good and useful citizens. 

A middle-aged woman : 
I did not dream of a country where women were equal to men ; 
but I dreamed of a country where women might do, without in- 
curring opprobrium, any work which they could do fairly 

well. 

A Philosopher : 
I did not dream of a country where there was no love of man for 
man nor woman for woman ; 
but I dreamed of a country where such a love was esteemed or dis- 
esteemed in proportion as it embodied or lacked noble and 
ennobling qualities. 



An ii<2;c<l pliysiciaii : 

I (lid not (liHiiUn of u civiliziilion whom tlicro wiiH ii<» orimo or secret 
vice ; 
but I (lri>;une(l ol ;i civili/iitioii that wns not, :ih is oiirH, the creatoi- 
of tlie one and ("omikIchI on (he olhiu-. 

An old teacher : 
I did not dream of a (•(tunti-y whcrc^ all a^recMl exactly aw to what 
was or waH not decorous; 
hut I dreamed of a country where all endeavoi-od to avoid any 
wound to the sense of de(!orum of otliers, and whoie this cour- 
tesy was not mistaken Cor any other virtue oi" rii>ht. 

A (IhiM of l.ioht : 
I did not di'eain of a country whei-e tluu'c was no criticism of wiit- 
inj^s, musi<% art, metlnnls, manners, or morals ; 
hut 1 dns-inuHJ of a country wIumc j)artisanship, and partisan ut- 
tcirances, and mcrc^ i!;ossij) a,i)out ])roduc(!rs, was not offered, 
still less ap[>lauded, acccjited, and mistaken for, criticism of 
products. 

A Statistician : 
I did not dream of a country whcu'c they put artilicial and cruel 
(^JKicks on pt>pulalion : 
but J dreamed of many countries soon deomin:;- it unwist; to otlic- 
ially insist on the continuance of any ai-tillcial stinndus to 
]H)pula.tion, now become uimeccssary, often undesirable, and 
sometinuis cruel. 

A Scoffer : 
1 did not dr(^am of a country whei'c there w(uc! no jtriesta of old re- 
li<i;ions: 
but 1 dreanied of a, (H)unli-y, many countries, when; such priests 
wheelcHl 'round and S([uai'e(l with new ideas, — the dull or sim- 
ple reluctantly, the clever or self-Beekin<;' ardently,— just as 
their like have ever done and ever will do. 

A l*ara<i;raphist : 
1 did not dniani of a country whore tiiere was no amusement over 
other folk's misfortune and comical 8ufferini;s ; 
but I dreamed of a country whore such amusement did not [as did 
the (Jretiks' amuscMiuMit at the (Comicality of Thersitcis' dirty 
tear-stained face, when Ai^amemnon slai)ped iiim foi- protcist- 
in<; against the wron<>; (htne to Achilles, in forcibly taking his 
iiris(us away from him | pi-(^vent folk unitini; a<i;ainBt, and 
preventing-, unfairness and cruelty. 

All the Accused, together, thoughtfully : 
1 did iu)t dream as one who sleeps; 

but I dreamed as one whose eyes are open and who reads the signs 
of the times. 



\\ Ktuii/.ii ucoiili'hdilly omillfil In \\w forcKoiiiK. | 



A Phil:intliroj)ist : 
I did not, dream of a country whore no one did evil who loinid it to 
his interest to do evil ; 
hut I dreamed ol" a country where the removal oL" men\s interest to 
do evil was practiced as the easiest way to do away with evil. 



THE VICTIMS. 

[a prosaic statement.] 

Whatever the plan, whatever the system, 
Whate'cr the machine, or whate'er tlie invention, 
Whatever its merits, its gain in the gross, 
It will have its defects — found out sooner or later. 

Men gain by it? Well. Jhit what of the victims. 

On whom fall less heavy the gains than the losses ? 

Pass by them ? They're silent. Pass by them unconscious. 

Pass by ? They are weeping. Pass by un regard ing ? 

Vain thought ! On perception will follow comparing; 
Then perception of values ; then blame or approval. 
Then quick comes the question : This blame, on whom resting? 
On Avhat person or persons, what system or systems ? 

Vain the hope of more sleep, of a little more slumber ! 
To the ant, or man's wit, flies the wise, creeps the sluggard. 
No resting, no peace for conservative folk, 
'Till a new system's found, or the old system's mended. 

Then a respite may last — 'till the new system's morrow 
Brings the groans of its victims, the new cry of sorrow. 
But the wheel must go 'round while a victim is weeping; 
No rest for the wakeful, short sleep for the sleeping. 

Be it so. Let but death be the sleep knows no waking 
To pity, to help. Not the victims forsaking 
But succoring alone can bring peace to man's breast. 
The last victim's last sob bring humanity's Kest. 



[From A-lcsaandro da Vonnora.j 

THE I5EST WAY, OR MY WAY. 

[a I'AKT OK A LKTTEK.] 

The good in thiiij^-s does not justify retaining them ; 
nothing short of perfcetion will justify retaining them. 
We can only nstain thoiii with satisfactiou until we (ran 
get something better ; we must regard them, most tilings, 
as temporary, as stop-gaps, until better things, or ways 
with which to do their work, or a better work, are found. 

We need not lay down, as if forever or at all, the old way ; 
Only, we must not let retaining the old way, hinder 
the adoption of a new. There are losses as well as gains 
incident to probably every change ; but we must count, 
or try to count, or at any rate be willing to count, 
the gains as well as the losses, the losses as well 
as the gains. Doubtless some will have an eye 
only for one and not the other; but this will not justify 
him whose eye is wholly or mostly on the losses 
in hindering him whoso eye is wholly on the gains. 

He must but hinder harm to others and himself. 
Not solely hinder others' chance of blessing lest 
Himself be harm'd. He must not even careless risk 
Great harm to others, to give self a little good. 
No way to work together found, let each then seek 
How best liimself, in his own way, to work. This does 
The doctrine, fact, of motions Indepentlence teach 
In its philosophy ; which, too, ships' tackings teach 
In practice. Do not interfere in haste, prevent, 
Because the ship seems sailing in direction cpiite 
Away from the desired haven. Ilecd the wise.* 

Each method has its value, new or old ; 

This Indian shawl, this hand-made lace, possess 

Beauty and charm machine-made fabrics lack. 

This shawl not Indian 'i This not hand-nuide lace '^ 

Alas for me, my judgment, i)ride, or ])urse. 

Yet hap})y they who can possess the charm 

Of shawls and lace like these — their greatest harm 

They seem'd those made by hand or Indian loom, 

(For whose real charm the world, too, findeth room,) — 

Happy, these now in reach. In moral things, 

Methods, machines, invention too hath wings. 

Faiths change, then manners, men the best hold fast 

Only while each man's-best-conceiv'd shall last. 

Old methods left behind, all changes, tell 

The tacking of the ship, man's history. Farewell ? 

• I think I have noticed that moat affirmative propositions contain truth, most 
negative ones the contrary. — Emeuson. 



No, not farewell while spiritual bliss 

Or, higher still, the spirit's worthiness 

You hold to justify, at every cost. 

All suffering. The world's well lost 

Only when something better's gained. 

Nor then well lost if that might gained be 

Without the sacritice. Oh ! wearily 

They cudgel'd children's brains, who taught by rote. 

To feel, to suffer, seek assuagement, find. 

Find twice, compare, prove all things, keep the best's, 

The law and history of living things. 

All count the cost, and each one seeks to know 

How to live happiest. Some men, here below, 

Ileav'n blest to gain, hang them to trees by hooks 

Rived through their flesh ; in sacrifice. 

In loss, with no gain visible on earth. 

In loss of comfort, cheer, amusement, rest, 

Would purchase Heaven; so, they seek the best. 

Others, of discipline, not sacrifice, 

Speak, seeking weary ways to justify ; 

So, count the cost. They : " Daily exercise 

That wearies, irks, has yet its worth in health 

It brings to body, discipline of soul." 

Yes, but when ways are found to get like gains, 

Sucli health of body, discipline of soul, 

By ways less tiresome, long, or full of pain, 

If I still choose the longer painful route, 

And close all other routes to other men, 

'Tis imperception, not perception, friend, 

Ignoble mind-work if from lack of thought, 

Ignoble feeling if from pain through wound 

Received to self esteem that other men 

Should find a better road than I in plan 

Resolv'd to walk in for the goal I'd gain. 

Yet, t'were not folly so yourself to walk, 

An't please ye. Walk so. But, kind friend, be kind. 

Or blind friend is it ? Wish ye to be blind ? 
So, now at last, farewell ? A little prayer 'i 
A little self-eftacement ? Strength to say : 
Not my way, but the best way, Lord, alway ? 

Yet, all the while I know, full well I know, 
Him wise who counts the gains where he must go ; 
Uses old w{},ys, their worth well known ; is slow 
To change in act ; yet, while he walketh so, 
Shuts eyes nor ears to betterment. 'Twere right 
To shut out every other way from sight ? 
His sight or others' 'i If he walk in night. 
Should he prevent, permit, a way of Light ? 



HYMN. 

[Air: My Country (God save the King).] 

Humanity, of thee. 
Crowned with Liberty, 
Of thee I sine;. 



Though \ouix the liours may wait, 
"Twill come, or soon or hite. 
The hour ordain\i of fate 
AVith tliee our kins;. 



Then be thy ways as light : 
Taught of the antique night. 
Seek truth for nil, 



Justice for everyone. 
For all beneath the sun 
So let thy will he done, 
All good for all. 



THE LOST LORD. 

Thoughtless and gay was I, long years ago, 

Lighthearted too ! 
With undimmed eyes 1 looked upon the world. 

And sky of blue. 
Li songs of praise, my waking soul burst forth, 

At early light ; 
With grateful heart I closed confiding eyes, 

Oil darkening night ; 
As wearied child from i)lay, with folded hands 

On mother's breast ; 
Or home returning bird on tired wings 

To peaceful nest. 
I sought with sages deeply hidden truths, 

In wisdom stored; 
Enchanted, dazzled with the treasure trove, 

I lost my Lord ! 

Now, days returning, like ships come to port, 

My soul is mute ; 
And darkness settles with far twinkling stars, 

In pain acute ; 
I care not for the beauteous robe or crown. 

The perfume sweet, 
The thrill of music or the scattered flowers, 

About his feet ; 



I do not care to know his parentage, 

Or wlionce ho came, 
Or seek long kmely hours what meaning liid, 

In mystic name. 
My eyes, with hght bewihlered, of each day, 

Inquire in vain. 
The unresponsive night comes on, and all 

Is dark again. 
I trace his footprints where the wretched are. 

Where sorrow is, 
I know he has been there, because the light 

Is surely his ; 
Has been, alas ! but is not, and my heart. 

Perplexed with doubt. 
Through cold and darkness groping seeks in vain, 

My Lord without, 
Thus haply, if I follow where I know 

That he has been. 
On some sweet morrow. I may wake and find, 

My Lord within. 



"NATIVE MOMP]NTS." 

The tnitli eternal standing there 

Looked back, looked deep into my eyes 
And would be known. 

Acknowledge me, 
Who made thee, thou thyself, or God ! 
Nay, thon liast heard my voice all, all along. 
Whence came the love that has consumed thy heart, 
Whence came the longing all the lagging years, 
The sense of unfulfilled, of best untried ; 

Who made thee, thou thyself, or God ! 
Who gave the bliss, who crowned the cup. 
Who made the draught so sweet, so sweet, 
Which is the sweetest mercy of thy life? 

Whe made thee, thou thyself, or God ! 

The truth eternal standing there 

Looked back, looked deep into my eyes. 
And would be known. 



[antiphon.] 
AS YEARS ROLL ON. 

PROCESSIONAL. 

{^Decani and Cantoris, afproaching from different aides .•] 

Breaking 'gainst rocks of a rock bound land, 
Rippling over a sliingl}' strand, 
Gliding up a silvery sand 
So the years roll on. 

Can. Stain'd oft with blood the smuggler's cave ; 
Sorrow and sin, as wild storms, rave ; 

They won and they lost, those smugglers brave ; 
So did the years roll on. 

Dec. Wedded for love, or lone of heart. 

Each life must patient bear its part, 
Bringeth it joy or only smart. 
So do the 3'ears roll on. 

Can. Robber chieftain, or baron bold 
King, or capitalist, 'twas told: 

Theirs of right all their hands can hold ; 
So the years must roll on. 

Dec. Home convenience and interest 

Fix all fates ; this way is the best. 
Some must yield to give life its zest ; 
So the years will roll on. 

\_Together in the nave ;] 

Can. No new truth can ever be foal'd. 
Dec. Ail is known and everything told. 

Dec. and Can. Changeless thus have centuries roU'd. 
So the years roll on. 



\^ After a time the choirs ar.e seen, like the returning shuttle, ap- 
proaching from, the opposite direction^ 

RECESSIONAL. 

Dec. and Can. Far and faint their memories now. 
Can. Smuggling's gone. 

Dec. And shame on the brow. 
Dec. and Can. Strange survivals they were I trow. 
So the years roll on. 

Passing together down the nave : 

Breaking 'gainst rocks of a rock-bound land, 
Rippling over a shingly strand, 
Gliding up a silvery sand, 
So waves and years roll on. 



STANZA. 

O time ! O fate ! O Providence of good ! 

Slow is thy foot, though succor thou shouldst bring, 

If, bringing succor, still on victim's pain thy footsteps prcsB. 

Hasten ! Heed not the scoff " They would the world new made ; 

And in a day." Where'er the old gives pain it asks the new. 

Wherein the new is better, hasten well its day. 

Lighten the load, where load is. So. Alway. 



WHEEE THERE IS SUFFEEING. 

[From Alensandro da Vermora.] 

Though men proclaim them, as of wont of old, 
I cannot know — I cannot think I know — 
Th' eternal purposes. Mine eyes are dim ? 
Or seems the way shut in ? Alike, the far. 
The ultimate, I cannot see — I cannot seem to see, 
The while close by me sobs a sufferer. 

Eternal purpose pardon me if, stooping low 
Or straining upward, I essay the pain t' assuage. 
The withe that binds to loosen, weights remove; 
So, move athwart th' eternal purposes 
I cannot see, or think I cannot see. 



INFLEXIBLE FACTORS. 

He toss'd the bahy lig-htly in liis arms, 

Forgetful of the chandelier above its head ; 

Th' nnyieldino- bronze, the baby's soft skull, met. 
Unharmed's the bronze, there. But tlie baby's dead. 

A quivering mold of aspic crowu'd a plat 

With silver skewers pierced, the table's pride. 

As borne in past, a skewer Jack grasp'd, held lirm ; 
Which rent the fabric. " Spoilt! " the butler sigh'd. 

For sti'eets symmetric, straight, lots uniform of size, 
Sufficient for all average needs the fathers had an eye ; 

But not for needs, alas, as small as yours and mine. 
So now in stilling tenements we suffocate and die. 

In what they seek t' effect, men often are well taught ; 

In what t' avoid, as oft, but children ne'er at school. 
The yielding factors yield, some crush, whenever men 

Some factor introduce of changeless iron rule. 

With things " mtended well" ev'n hell is pav'd 'tis said, 
" Who'd do no evil, then, must naught do ? " asks Alarm. 

Where all is tiexible, most harms are quickly shunned ; 
One hard-fast-rule or factor — tJien comes endless harm. 



THE UNSEEN PRESENCE OF TILE ONE L LOVE. 

O presence, unseen presence of the one 1 love ! 
Music unheard, but never absent from my breast ! 
O golden days, made golden by a dream, 
A dream unspoken, half unformed, a dream 
80 pure, so sweet, so precious every hour. 
Whispering the unseen presence of the one I love !. 



A COMING CHANGE AND THE POETS OF THE FU- 

TUKE. 

Swift come the rolling years. 

Yet, soon to come, — so soon to come, — 

A change far greater than the years have known 

For long and long moves toward ns. Who could dream 

When (from the orient?) first gun's powder came, 

Man's self-defence given up to body politic, 

Woman's defence assured (then ill perceived), — 

Upon it close would follow swift, — so swift, 

Four hundred years, a breath, in time, — her call, 

Self issued, for self-help, then sole support ? 

Then, swifter, will to sole support 

Her offspring, rather than be stayed, — if sted 

By trammel in the staying, sted no more ? 

Then, swifter than outreaching eye can see. 

Comes trammel past, freedom in one more way 

Added to freedoms past slowly evolv'd 

Or won by man as mass from separate men. 

Old withes unbound, breaking of withes is past. 
Old sins are no more sins with old laws dead. 

Sin's strength, the law, now abrogate, new fields 
Must minstrel, player, story-teller find. 

No tale to tell when love alone will bind ? 

Stay ! Love is fairest in love's utterest ; 

Love will touch hearts while hearts can beat with love. 

Life will go on more fair, more pure, more real. 

Though, like " the Lord's anointed," as a dream 

Will seem the-king-must-not-be-touched, (yet whom 

To touch, yet leave untouched, were all the aim 

Of romancist and singers ages past). 

King now no more ! touch'd, gone for aye, 



The antique king of romance, love and duty, 
Striving and striving in an endless strain ! 
Wliile, king for aye while human hearts can love, 
Love will remain, best gift of heaven to men. 

Haste then, slight book, whisper your passing strain 
While it has life, — it cannot live again ; 
Tell of submission when the heart is wrung. 
Tell of desertion when the heart hath sung. 
Tell of love living as t'wnll live for aye 
When what inspires towers toward the sky. 
Tell of the wars, for soon war will be o'er. 
Tell of the voyage toward the eternal shore, 
Tell of the tears, — the tears that soon must cease. 
Tell of the smiles, — the eternal smiles of peace. 



STANZAS. 

The grains of sand roll down, roll down 
The grains of sand roll down toward the sea. 
The grains of sand lodge curionsl}-. 

(Ah, me ! for me ! 
The grains of sand lodge curiously for me.) 

The grains of sand pile up, pile np, 

As if forgetful of the far off sea, 

'Till starts the lodgement. Furiously 

The grains of sand then rush toward the sea. 

(Heedless of me ! — 
The grains of sand rush on toward the sea.) 



THE JESU-WORSIIIPPER. 

I know not sweet ensample, elder brother, friend, 
If thou art conscious now, yet still I fain would wend 
Sure steps that toward thee meeting, Saviour, tend. 
Meetino- with thy sweet likeness, or thy sweeter self 'i 
I know not, ask not. E'en, without other prize or pelf. 

Still would I fain do well because 'tis well. 
Shun pain for self, for all, fearing- no other hell. 
Nor didst thou bid me self to seek, 
By thine ensample. Saviour meek ; 
Nor sacrifice, nor self, thine aim ; 
But blessing only. Heavenly flame, 
Howsoe'er lighted, burning in human breast. 
Burn not in vain in mine. 

Is there no rest ? 
No ending of the burning of love's flame ? 
No work all done ? No, not while life, 
'Twixt good and evil, as an endless strife, 
'Twixt joy and pain, 'twixt weariness and doubt. 
Swings like some pendulum. 

Lo, in the west 
The sun is sinking and the day is gone. 
Oh, when my sun is sinking, and my day is done. 

Let me not have to say : Those that forlorn 
I found, I left as wretched as I found. That thorn 
Press not, oh fate, against ray dying breast. 
While life lasts, work. In but death only, rest. 



ASPIRATION. 

Always will men aspire, all l)ciii£j;s too, 
Always reach ii})ward for tiie liii;liest known, 
( )r liiiijliest (irearn'd ol", be it earthly <^ood, 
Or Ileav'n, more fair than earth, beyond the skies. 
To-day is heav'ji j-egarded as a dream ? 
Men seek to make a second Ileav'n of earth, — 
As voyagers tnrn to deck their place of birth, 
Make it an FA Dorado, home of joy and rest 
Find they, or ne'er, the El Dorado of their ancient quest. 



AS ONK LKl). 

As thoso led by ;i way that tlioy know not wo evolv'd tliCRO poems, 
As (iiiior^jjiiii;' in ims()iii;lit; chumber from Bomo wiridiiii^ stair, 
As wand'riii<ij from int'rest to iiit'rest tliroii^h ^lou tliickly wood(;d, 
Hy tiiriiH <;atirrin^ ieallut or pcbldc!, biiiT or llovv'rc^t tliat bcc.krtn'd 

us onwai'd. 
As oim turns wh(Mi tb(! daylii^'ht is i'adini!,', linds the way Ik; has ('omc 

by o'crshadowM, 
'l'h(! spot wlicro ho stands nncxpootcd, rchuitant to |)art with his 

gleanings, 
Finds a way forth to (^■lrry them saioly yet loaxc ins hands I'roo for 

his journey, 
So iicre are bound up these reminders. Wo keep, iiapiy bui-y them 

here, 
l^^acli recalling a moment of joyance or tliought ; now a Binile, now 

a tear, 
Now a seeking of metiiods of blessing, now of shunning a danger 

anear 
Or afar, and or dreaded, unnoted. In joy learrnng joy of posses- 
sion, 
In loss learning sorrow of loss, aye the golden i-ide ])leading for 

othei's, 
'Die pendulum swinging, so passM we, by ways that we knew not led 

onward, 
Made glad as we pass'd by the pleasures and int'rests that onward 

way brought us. 
Who led by a way tliat we knew not, or what force impell'd, 
IJlind Fate, or a loving Father, conscious, unconscious power? 
Though we know not nor dare to question, though be ours rightly 

praise or blame, 
Dear the gift that each moment brought us, each meed of the passing 

hour. 
Each charm and each interest— which greater? — far away, scarce 

recallVl now. The llame 
Of the sunset glow warns us our journey together is ending. Each 

henceforth 
His scp'rate way home must be wending. So now when the daylight 

is fading, 



When the moment of parting approaches, ere leaving the past far 

behind ns, 
Exchange we as tablets these fragments, stainM leaflets and bai-k 

films, recalling 
Joy, int'rest, or effort, so garner'd may haply be gleanings of worth 

still 
To those chance to heed them. Farewell. Part we iiere now and 

some for long voyages. 
Outward bound t'ward the islets of silence, outward bound 'cross the 

seas to new fields, 
And as mariners watching still ever from tlie prow what the horizon 

yields, 
As mariners still ever hoping, sailing on as with sails ujifurl'd, 
Each morn will a new fairer morrow brin<»' forth for a waitini>; world. 



CONCLUDmG NOTE. 

In gathering together, or reviewing, the pieces which make up 
tlus brief volume, we find them, although written at different times, 
and not all by tlie same hands, yet having a certain likeness in the 
underlying thought which animates so many of them as^ seems to 
justify, na)', when once suggested, almost to compel, the title given 
to the collection. 

In the Note, prefatory to the Poems, the uncertainty of dura- 
tion of all things earthly, and so the rise, reign, and passing away, 
one after another, of results of various Factors, for a time held to as 
Inflexible,— and such as have been, each in turn, deemed highly im- 
portant, or even necessary, to various human societies — is brought 
forward. 

In the Prelude the different aspects which such Factors take ni 
our minds under varying Circumstances is dwelt upon. 

In the Suites, in cases entirely separate in circumstances, scenes, 
and persona3, are seen effects of enactments which, whether held as 
human or divine, have been held as imposed on conscience as Inflexi- 
ble Factors. Thus the Agbalaide is made up of fragments contrib- 
uting toward a picture of a passion, beautiful and ennobling in itself, 
but sacrificed by its Subject to a call of conscience. The Eglantine 
consists of fragments contributing toward a picture of a passion, 
delicate and pure in itself, but sacrificed by its Object to the call of 
conscience. In the Three Winds is seen an attempted suppression 
of all earthly love or passion by its Subject at the call of conscience. 
In AcHRALAL a passion turned in upon itself is then seen unpremed- 
itatedly fixing itself, nnreturned, upon a passing Object and ques- 
tioning of duty. As DIFFERING LINKS ENCHAINED shows the agitation 
and fluctuation of mind following on passion gratified, in reality or 
in intention, Contrary to conscience. In a garden is composed^ of 
fragments faintly picturing a lot Blessed of Earth and Heaven. The 
next suite touches on the Season of love ; the next on Temperament ; 
and the next on the differences in personal characteristics at Differ- 
ent Ages. In After the Summer is ended a poetic parallel is sug- 
gested between similar Forces in Nature ; and effects from the same 
force, when acting on different natures, are contrasted. 

Whatever relates to the sentiment or passion of Love lends itself, 
more than do other subjects, to poetic treatment, as is shown by its 
being the subject of by far the greater number of lyrical poenis, as 
well as of piays and romances innumerable, throughout history. 
Poems on that subject are, in any volume of verses, likely to be those 
most numerous : and this would doubtless have been the case here 



therefore, even if all the poems had been by one instead of by several 
writers. Yet the subject of the Dij-ytych entitled Practicality has oc- 
cupied in both the head and heart of one of the writers, by many times 
over, all the attention probably given to other subjects. While again 
a multiplicity of subjects such as those named in Tue Dreamers, 
whj^h have occupied much attention as affected by Factors seem- 
ingly Inflexible, not only did not, by their nature seem to lend them- 
selves to lyrical treatment, but besides, seemed, when having a place 
in such a collection, best treated in such a way as to give the results 
of that attention stated in the most condensed and brief form. 

Throughout the majority of the pieces it is the bearing or the 
results of Inflexible Factors of various kinds which most generally 
are dwelt on ; and then, further, the habit of mind is dwelt on which 
resents change, even for the better, in that which is established and 
customary. And the reason often of this habit of mind is hinted at ; 
and the value and importance of this resentment is compared to the 
pain of victims, under whatever System such pains have been, or are 
now, made necessary. And the willingness to study to amend any 
System, so as to secure its advantages, where that is still desirable, 
while eliminating its evils, its creation of victims, is so, by implica- 
tion, put forward as a disposition of mind, not indeed unusual, but 
as not yet so usual as is that general sentiment of pity for suffering, 
and desire to avoid inflicting it, now so commonly evidenced among 
men. 

We all wish that suffering may be avoided ; but we all tend to 
take refuge (from the wearying duty of seeking how it may be 
avoided) in thinking it unavoidable. If sufferings which we deplore 
are inevitable under existing enactments or conditions, it rests us, 
because it relieves us of responsibility, to think of those enactments 
or conditions as something fixed, and as unalterable as the laws of 
the Medes and Persians. Doubtless, in a comparatively early stage 
of Society the sense of security given by a general agreement that 
laws, once established, should never be changed, had its value, its 
great value. But those conditions of society are, as a general rule, 
with us at least, long past. In shipwreck the company often, we 
are told, agree to obey such a leader as they may choose, implicitly ; 
and there is doubtless a time for inflexibility of law, just as there is 
a time for a dictator. But when the time comes that the need of 
inflexibility of laws, or need of dictators, is past, the disadvantages 
they bring with them come to the front, and men modify laws and 
depose dictators. Such depositions may be made with violence, as 
in the French Revolution and as generally when resistance to change 
is stubborn and implacable ; or may be made almost unconsciously, 
as often in happier instances in the history of the human race. Once 
men, their own happiness secured, paid little attention to the suffer- 
ings and losses involved in securing it. Something of this still ex- 
ists, in a striking form, in the East, as seen in its slave trade, and 
slave system, and the uses made of the slaves. But the feeling of 



occidental nations toward oriental slavery shows liow far such an in- 
difference to the sufferings, uses, or maiming of human beings, is 
from.the present thinking of the more civilized of mankind. 

A study of the law or fact of the Independence of Motions, once 
intelligently made, and a sense of the parallel that exists between all 
arrangements whether material or moral — which is indeed at the 
base of our more modern systems of instruction, from the kinder- 
garten upward — must lead, it seems to the writer, any student hav- 
ing also at all the inventive faculty, to a liabit of mind which will 
lead him to think that any fault in any machine is something which 
most likely can be gotten over, and so is something which men, us- 
ing their best powers, ought to seek to overcome, — and this whether 
the machine, the contrivance, the method, is one used for material 
or moral ends. So, to that high sense of duty which led the Medes 
and Persians to hold as unchangeable their laws, succeeds, in our day, 
that sense of duty so to perfect law that it presses hardly on none. 

That law should press hardly on some was the antique view of 
right, finding expression in antique art, in their carj'atidse, their 
" Persians " bending in suffering and tears under heavy burdens. It 
is fine — from their point of view. It is the reign of law made vis- 
ible. But, just as the Greeks at last made their caryatidai beauti- 
ful, bearing their burdens lightly, and so marked a progress, for the 
time, in human thought, in man's consideration of his fellows, or- — if 
we choose — man's view of what it is pleasing to himself to contem- 
plate, so now we cannot contemplate suffering, — either presented in 
antique works, or in a mediaeval campo-santo, or in a Last Judgment 
carved around a cathedral door, — with entire sympathy. We look 
upon all that as the art expression of its time. 

And, if we cannot bri ug ourselves to express such sufferings now 
in art, neither can we, with comfort, contemplate in imagination any 
form of suffering, once we have thought of it as suffering. Nor can 
we think with comfort of any form of suffering as inevitable, once 
we have thought of it as evitable. Nor can we, having once thought 
of any form of evil or suffering as evitable, continue to live on 
contentedly without striving to hasten the day wlien it will be 
evitated. • 

Where the results of Inflexible Factors are only, or mainly, happy, 
it is indeed as if one lived delightfully, in his own house, mid gar- 
dens, in the city of his choice; but, where those results are other- 
wise, it is as if one pined and stifled in a faulty tenement-house in 
the city, not of his choice so much as of his enslavement. And as 
those living in delightful homes may yet pity, and even desire to 
rescue, those living in faulty and stifling tenements, so too it is nat- 
ural that any form of suffering should, if once seen, and anywhere 
about them, touch the hearts of those, whether writers or readers, 
who live in joy. 

If, as is suggested in one of the papers in the Appendix to this 
volume, the experience of mankind has been that of man both in a 



collective and individual capacity gradually learning to let others 
alone in order to be himself let alone, [a selfish lesson — yet a lesson 
in self-restraint, a lesson in foregoing a pleasure, the pleasure almost 
the most grateful and tempting to active minds, that namely of med- 
dling and interfering with others, and governing others, and so 
bringing about results which seem to one's self desirable, whether 
desirable for self or others,] if the experience of man has been to 
learn somewhat to govern his conduct, whether in an individual ca- 
pacity, or when acting with others, by this lesson, yet still vast 
masses when acting collectively, and most individuals when think- 
ing about a vast number of subjects have not arrived at a knowledge 
of this lesson, still less at its practice. 

Nothing would seem simpler than that folk should not in a collec- 
tive capacity impose ill-judged restrictions on their own individual 
convenience of action, rather than, like their ancestors, hasten to do 
so in the hope (often mistaken) of some selfish advantage, and then 
vainly strive to ease their own resultant sufferings, arid to right them- 
selves, by maltreating their own instruments (kings, ministers, classes,) 
in occasional revolutions. But to perceive this seems only given to 
the few ; and the few, in the progress of mankind, are necessarily 
continually being swamped by the many. Probably to some always 
is given a cheerful common sense, so caution (in accepting and act- 
ing on theories, since theories are many while there can be but one 
Truth), hence inaction (in restraining others), self-restraint, temper- 
ance, — the result, aimed at, a Golden Age. Always, certainly, to 
others is given zealotry (often morose), action in restraining others, 
self-worshijp, intemperance, — and results achieved like the Nurem- 
berg Dogberrys' torture chambers, and the Inquisition. Wise in- 
action is forgotten. tTuwise action lives in its dreadful products. 

We must expect therefore — however many the sermons, at vari- 
ous times and in various places, ])reached, like this one, on this subject 
— that for long and long the majority of mankind, as in the past, will, 
on the slightest provocation, and in proportion as they have opportu- 
nity, rush into Hindering and Imposing of Restrictions and such like 
Law or Rule making, of various kinds civil or social. Then, little by 
little, and sometimes, alas, very long afterward, we must expect one 
and another to perceive the evil effects which have, unforeseen, grown 
out of such restrictions and laws and interferences, — effects which 
in congestion and suffering of parts or even destruction of parts, have 
been suffered from often for long, for a generation, for centuries, 
for ages, without their connection with the laws or restrictions which 
have bred them being generally, or perhaps at all, perceived. Then, 
slowly, — after vast evil has been done, evil which can never be atoned 
for, never made up for to the victims, the generations, the individuals, 
that have lived and died suffering from those evil effects, the cause 
of all this suffering will be removed in the shape of some ill-consid- 
ered and never necessary, or at best like female foot-binding in China, 
only temporarily useful, Inflexible Factor. 



A THEORY 

OF 

THE ORIGIN OF 
ORGANIC FORM 



A PAPER EEAD BEFORE MEMBERS OF THE FacTJLTT OF COLUMBIA 

College and others, New York, November 5, 1875. 



A THEORY OF THE ORIGIN OF ORGANIC FORM. 



Break an egg. The white and the yelk we are to3|i each is a 
mass, in which no certain trace of the future chicken can m found. 
Whether this is so or not, yet by heat, a hen's or a furnace's, the 
full fledged chicken is brought forth. Why not some other form '? 
The object of this paper is to answer that question. 

In the autumn of 1868 I saw in London some of the beautiful 
Venetian glass made by Salviati at Murano, and while examining 
it, it occurred to me that it furnished an explanation of the like- 
ness of child to parent. There seems to be a gfeneral notion, now- 
a-days, that force and matter are interchangeable, and that the 
different proportions of the inherent force in the atoms of carbon, 
oxygen and hydrogen, for example, make a combination of them, 
as albumen, for instance, organic, absorbative. We can conceive 
of clots of absorbative matter increasing in bulk till they fall apart 
from theu' own lack of adhesiveness, so propagate. Divers 
conditions develop in them divers organs or diversions in their 
organization — in ages developing more and more complicated 
beings, individuals in each generation inheriting the extremest 
complications of the preceding — like father like son. But why 
like father like son ? 

The why is evident to the Venetian glass student. Take a 
a molten stick of glass, one end white the other red. Double it 
upon itself. Draw out the new stick so formed, half red half 
white, to the finest thread. Examine it through a microscope. 



The white and red are there as distmct as ever. Double it again 
and draw out the thread, or stick so formed, to however attenua- 
ted a hair. Two v/hites, two reds are visible, and co on ad infinitum. 
The relative relations of the atoms of matter to each other never 
change. New relations can be formed, but the old remain. Take 
a figure, in plan say a star ; deposit on one j^oint red glass, on 
another blue, on another yellow, on another white, on another 
green. Fill around the points with black glass. When molten 
and the whole is fused together it will make one stick of glass, 
which can be while ductile drawn out to the finest conceivable 

thread, but break it off anywhere and 
examine the end of the thread and 
the star will be there. When the 
thread is extended by a force acting 
equally on all j)arts of its section the 
relative position of the atoms is un- 
iinchanged. Such is the experience 
with Venetian glass. Such is the 
experience with all ductiles. Such 
we can conceive to be the law of homogeneous matter. The same 
law would hold if the glass were colorless, but we could not see 
the fact. It would seem one homogeneous stick of glass. It would 
be, but the relative position of its atoms would remain like the 
parent star, though the fact would not be made visible. So it is 
with the BQQ or the germ within it. Its atoms all have the rela- 
tive position of those of the parent from which it was secreted. 
Yet it may seem or be a homogeneous mass, and if colorless, the 
chicken in it, or rather the chicken that it is, svill be as invisible 
as the star when its points are all of white glass. 

Take a minute portion of the thread containing the colored 
star, and suppose the glass were absorbative, and absorbed from 
the atmosphere, or other matter with which it came in contact, 
matter like itself. If it absorbed equally all over, which with like 
conditions in its parts of itself, and like conditions in its surround- 




5 

ings it jnnst do, then the ahnost invisible fine star in the minute 
fragment of thread would grow to be a large but similar star, and 
ultimately obtain the size of its parent. The same would be true 
of a bit of the thread of the colorless star. So the chicken in the 
egg grows into a big chicken. The chicken is invisible in it be- 
cause transparent, colorless, like the invisible star present in the 
white glass, but its several parts are all there. If it grows at all 
it must grow to be like its parent. 

Every part of my body is alive. The blood drawn from my 
arm is alive — organic. If I set it away where it will not dry up too 
fast, it will breed, or at least feed animalculae, maggots, etc., and so 
live. I am a collection of lives, but I have an individuality, just as 
the United States has, though composed of separate States, and 
they of counties, they of townships, peoples, houses, lands, etc., 
etc. Any part of me, separated from me, goes on living. It may 
further separate, disintegrate into atoms and separate organisms, 
as it does if it rot. Or it may be absorbed into other lives as is 
the mother's milk. But only that which bears the impress of all 
of me can go on living like me. I can fuse the stick of glass con- 
taining the star, and draw from it a thread of the red, the blue, or 
the white, but only the thread drawn from every part of the star 
will contain the whole star. Only the secretion from the whole 
plant bears the impress of the whole jilant. Only the secretion 
from the whole and fully developed plant, (bearing the impress of 
all of it, therefore), is the seed or germ. That is the definition of 
a seed or germ in fact. A definition, so far as I know, never 
before given. 

The leaf is organic. If it falls it rots, and is usufructuous. 
It cannot develop into anything. It could only develop into a 
leaf, and it is a leaf already. A leaf cannot give forth new leaves. 
It stays a leaf till it dies. So of a bit of the bark, or any other bit 
larger or smaller, bearing only the impress of a part of the plant. 
But take a part bearing the impress of all the organs, it grows to 
display all the organs. Take the seed or a branch. It has all the 



6 

organs of the plant bidden in it. It can grow ; and the branch or 
tlie seed, the smallest form of branch, containing all the organs in 
its folds, must grow into the likeness of its j^arent. It is like the 
minute bit of star-containing glass, which could only grow (if it 
grew) into the bigger similar star. 

Distance, space, are only relative. Finite mind cannot follow 
into the infinite smallness of the parts of the star, in the thread so 
attenuated as to be invisible to which we can conceive the glass 
drawn out, but the relations of its several parts we see go on ad 
infinitum. They cannot change. One asks, are all the oaks that 
ever grew hidden in the first acorn, if there was one *? Yes, just 
as casts from a bas relief are hidden in the original. 

Only the secretions from the whole of me bear the impress of 
the whole of me, and can develop into a child like me. Nothing 
less than a cast from the whole bas relief will reproduce the whole. 
The cast of an arm, a head, a foot, will not give the whole. The 
law is unalterable, the result inevitable. But changes may come, 
new conditions bo added. I may throw a thread across the face 
of the bas relief before taking one cast, and its impress will be 
handed down by every cast from that cast. This accounts for the 
transmission of new characteristics in beings — development. 

So, of mental or moral, as of physical characteristics. The 
secretion drawn from the whole of me will bear the impress of the 
whole of me, my moral as well as physical characteristics. The 
secretion from part of a human being will not make a human being. 
It requires the secretion from the whole of me, bearing the im- 
press of the whole of me, to make a child like me. And just as it 
will have an arm like mine, so it Avill bear the impress of my men- 
tal and moral characteristics. As I form the star in the glass, so 
I can form " I love you," in candy. Draw out either while ductile 
to a thread. In one, I Avill always still find the star, in the other 
" I love you." Now if we doubled the thread upon itself and catch 
it in the middle, and, twisting it, draw it out in one thread, that 
one thread will be doubly marked, containing two stars, or two 



" I love you's — which its section will show — or other threads con- 
taining other devices may be added and new combinations be 
added ad infinitum, bnt the original device, the star or what not, 
will always be there. Every time it is doubled upon itself, or re- 
ceives some addition, the thread becomes more complex. In a 
certain sense more " highly organized." 

Like begets like. The complicated begets not the simple, 
but the complicated ; and let any accident add a further compli- 
cation and a further complication is begotten, to be handed down 
to the future. The cast from the face will be like the face, and the 
cast from the thread will be like the thread ; and the cast from 
both (the face with the thread across it) will be like both. Every 
accident adds complexity — this is development. Others have pro- 
claimed development, but I have herein explained it. Others have 
claimed that it is. I have stated what it is ; have shown the me- 
chanical action accounting for it ; have shown that it cannot but be. 
Each time the thread of Venetian glass, by accident or design, 
doubles on itself, or combines with other threads, the resultant 
thread contains them all. So with every accident of life, of exis- 
tence, or design of the creator, adding new shapes, new forms, new 
qualities to the organism, or the republic of organisms, the secre- 
tion bearing the impress of the whole shows these additions. 
More complicated types must ever arise. 

And, as I can chisel the nose off the face in any of the casts, 
and the cast from that cast lack noses, so any part may be de- 
stroyed and disappear. This must not be mistaken for a return 
to simplicity. It is a further complication. That action of the 
chisel is an added element in the futui'e. 
Nov. 1875. D. N. K. 



THE VENETIAN GLASS VASE. 

This is the vase of crystal made iu Mnrauo's islet ; 

Marked I these threads of rubj' coursing its stem transparent, 

Marked them and read there its structure, the law of its being, mine also, 

The law of its race, of all races, the relation of atoms unchanging ; 

Saw how the egg and the wheat seed secrete from the whole of its forebear 

Bears all its impress, must grow in its likeness ; 

Revealed, saw there haply a secret hid to men's senses forever. 



A. H. 11. B, E, G. 



The sacerdotc says, " Let me tell you what is discreet; let 
me have the sole say of what is 'done in the fear of God/ in 
' reverence.' 

And I will say, ''the fear of God" has nothing to do with 
this earth or the laws of creation; or, as men say, the methods 
of nature, its methods of construction and destruction. Leave 
all this as unworthy of your attention, as made to ensnare you, 
as the work of the devil. Consider both construction and de- 
struction as only l)ewildcrnient. That sounds a little unreason- 
able; but reason, too, is a snare. Trust us. We have discarded 
reason, and do not walk by sight. Let us lead. Leave 
everything to us. That will make life dull? 0, no, dear 
child, we will let you have plenty of amusements, childish 
amusements fitted for you, dear child, " distractions. " Kiches? 
Accumuhite them and we will give you our blessing, help you 
to hold them, and help you to enjoy them. Love? Well, this 
is a delicate subject, not to be plainly spoken of. In theory 
you and all men must have purity complete, that is absolute 
continence, except in monogamous marriage. 

But, of course, this is for many impossible. That that 
must be which is impossible; that duty, according to revela- 
tion (according to us,) ref(uires what creation, according to 
common experience denies — is a little puzzling to the mind, 
and is an instance of why we don't want you to use your minds 
— and prefer your leaving thinking and reason to us. Ac- 
knowledge our right by miraculous appointment, our divine 
right (like the divine right of kings, which was once, when 
our teaching on that subject was listened to, as well as our 
teaching on other subjects, that are still listened to, such a 



6 

pens than is known.) And so the}' have to come to us to get 
the bruised particles somewhat cemented togetlier witli a little 
of our different patent sacerdotal cements; all patents, all mon- 
plies Yes, they have to come to us. They have to come to 
us or be damned — at least we tell them so — and we take care 
to tell tliem so in infancy and earli'St childhood when impres- 
sions are easiest made anH made strong and ineffacable. Once 
get a child thoroughly frightened and he never recovers from 
it. He remains a child, a trembling, timid child, cowering in 
the secret recesses of his consciousness as long as he has con- 
sciousness. He never out-grows it. He never develops that 
part of him into a man. He is ours — our slave, or as we 
say, our "child" forever. 

Well, so you see the Creator works for us after ; 11. He has 
his Avays, and we have our ways. They are different ways, and 
we find our account in it. It all works nicely for our interest 
— for our little game. We can piously say, " all things work 
together for good," and add (if you understand by the phrase 
ourselves, about which doubts will occasionally obtrude tliem- 
selves, but not often, we are too busy for that,) "for tliem 
that love God." 0, we can quote Scripture — the highest and 
noblest Scripture — as well as the Devil, for our })urpose, for 
our interested purpose, our men-roping-in purpose, and our 
self-deceiving purpose. Yes, we use Scr pture "for the terror 
of them that do evil (or, at least, do what is against our inter- 
est which is as much as we can generally attend to,) and the 
prai?e of them that do well," (or, at least, for our interest.) 

Now, dear child, son, understand our position. I may have 
been a little indiscrcetely confidential or diffusive. 1 may have 
forgotten you a bit, and may have been thinking aloud. But 
you will soon forget it. While you will not forget what we 
took good Care to impress upon your callow sensorium in in- 
fancy, viz: There is a hell of unutterable liorror, and you will 
go there unless you do as we say. And you can't do as Ave say. 
So you are bound to go there unless we get you out of your 
scrape. Well, then, dear child, it is simple; amuse yourself if 



worldly Avise; or don't amuse yourself if a dreamer of an ideal 
perfection, and so given to magnify slips of momentary thought 
or wish, or hope, or wonder, (for wondering about things leads 
to speculation, to thought, which we disapprove of. We, and 
we only must do the thinking for men, and we will discuss as 
to what is for our interest, as we have done from time to time 
in council'^, and will put forth what is to be held — not thought 
about, that is our business.) So amuse yourselves. Have a 
go«d time, or deny yourselves and have a bad time. Biit 
either way, be sure to come to us at last for your hell-escape- 
ticket and you will be all right. Pay our price. It is regu- 
lated like the bills of our professional brethren, the body doc- 
tors! Once the same men practiced both callings — body curing 
and soul curing (or body-killing and soul-killing — ha! ha! 
but I am really indiscreet. ) Our prices are regulated by what 
we think a man will stand. The more afraid of hell you are 
the more is the favor to you of getting you out of that fear; 
and so the more you must pay for your hell-escape-ticket. Now, 
dear child, kneel down and make your submission. There; 
God bless you. Au revoir." 



But would it not be well if you and I whether sacerdotes like 
the above, or other, or whatever we are, should kneel down 
and pray: not our way, Lord, hut the best ivay. 



ROUND ON EOUND. 

^e seem to be here, i.e., to be conscious, and so conscious of be- 
ing, conscious and conscious of our surroundings. We seem to have 
joy and pain, or comfort and discomfort, rest, or, at any rate, un- 
rest, fatigue, weariness and desii-e of rest ; we seem to have the pain 
of liunger, and, at certain ages and times, of desire. If this liunger 
or desire have promise of assuagement they themselves give pleasure ; 
we call them " good appetite," " le tendre desir," etc ; and if that 
prospect is absent, they are torture. Tantalus is tortured with a 
cpienchless thirst, a hunger for fluids, and so on. Yet, " If I had a 
<;ood foamino; beaker of cool ale here," cries the man in the hot rail- 
way flying train, " I would give twenty-five dollars for this thirst." 

We seem to learn to profit by our experiences of comfort, or at 
least of discomfort, assuaging thirst, satisfying hunger, gratifying 
desire, getting warm when suffering from cold, or finding shelter 
froui storms, etc. 

When thirsty we learn to go where we expect to find drink; 
when hungry, food, etc. The distance we go seems to depend on 
previous experiences (our own or, as is now suggested, those too of 
our ancestors). The babe turns its lips to seek its mother's breast. 
The stag goes leagues through the forest to find the salt licks. So 
seeking, we show ourselves, so to speak, idealists, conceiving an ideal, 
an ideal of good, in the sensorium ; and then, like idealists, seeking 
to get a practical, a material, a real, realization of such ideal. 

In our surroundings, our " here," we seem to become ware of 
tlie existence of other beings. We are more or less able to commu- 
nicate with them, either by our, or their, " mute indirecticms " {I.e., 
by watching them and judging of them and their wishes and inten- 
tions by their conduct as far as we see and note it. Thus the beasts 
seem to communicate to each other much intelligence as to the 
whereabouts of food, shelter, etc., and especially when they are in 
trouble and need help) ; or, we seem to be able to communicate by 
articulate speech, whose forms, languages, differ, and have to be, be- 
cause arbitrary, learned more or less laboriously. 

By speech, inarticulate or articulate, other beings seem to tell us 
of their experience. 



We seom, HOine of us, abl(3 to ^o farther and not only to tell our 
experience, tliat others may [trofit by it in parallel cases, and able, 
combined with otliers, to pass it from mouth to mouth, so that it may 
reaclH;hoBe far distant from the first speaker, far distant in space and 
unseen, and even, (by the old tellin<( it to the youn^, who, retaining 
it in their memories, can tell it again fo those younger tlian them- 
selves, a7)d so, the process lacing repeated i'in- generations) to those 
far distant in time also ; — we seem, I say, some of us, alWe not only 
to do this, through a <-,huin of individuals, but further able, some one 
or more individuals, to make a re(;ord, a niurkj a totem, make a trail 
which can be known and read of another, if taught; and so, by 
means of such marks or trails, to conve\' infoi-mation without ]<er- 
sonal cojitact, to convey infoririati(jn, as we say, "by letter." And 
farther we seem to have an elaljoi-ate syst(;m of such marks, so that. 
vei-y abstruse and remote and delicate discriininations of ideas mav 
all thus be conveyed from one to another, from <>i\(i to many, from 
one moment of time to a period of time far distant. These cominu- 
iiications if found useful, if found to convey valuable knowledge 
learned by experience of others far distant in time or space we shall 
naturally, as in the case of our own more deai-ly bought experience, 
liighly value. Such records will amount to rules, fonnula, for get- 
ting what we want in certain cases, or avoiding evils in othei- ccj'tain 
cases. 

And, if such rules are adopted generally by all our tribe, by all 
our fellows, by all around us similarly situated to ourselves, thev 
will form, j)racti(;ally, a law, or body, or series, of laws. We shall 
at least be held responsible and subject to reproach from our fellows 
if evil come to us or them through our failure to follow such rules, 
to be guided by such laws. No wonder, then, that respect for Laws 
will be great, and will be strongly inculcated by those who most ap- 
})reciate their value, by those of most experience, the old, and no 
woruler that the faithful exact observancrj of laws will, by those ex- 
])erienc(;d be inculcated on the inexperienced, the young. 

Jt will not surprise us then if, in oi-dei- to impress upon the 
young, Ihe impoi-tance of obs(;rvance of tribal laws and the like, the 
old stretch a point of morals, and, feeling that the end justifies the 
means, threaten the young not only with ])enaltie8 that experience 
has shown (joine fnnn neglect of keeping the law, but farther with 
penalties imposed by the tribe or within the tribe (the fear of the 
cei'tainty of which will restrain the weak ones in the tribe) and pen- 



alties (which will rcBtrain even the stroiijL^ ones of tiie tribe) whicli 
have no other existence tlian in tlieir imagination, — the imagination 
of the speaker or that of some other old fellow who has passed such 
]>rodnct of his imagination on, for use, to his pals. We are not sur- 
jjrised to find laws therefore inculcated not only by declaring and 
showing their value, but also inculcated by threats of imaginary 
disaster in case of violation. And again, as such threats would 
soon get often found out as vain and so be laughed at, if they par- 
took of the nature of an iininediate visible — say bodily — harm — 
which, when it did not follow, and in the cases wliere it did not fol- 
low, would disprove the likelihood of its following in other like 
cases — we ai-e not surprised that remote harms, invisible, perhaps 
not'bodily or material at all, should have great vogue as threats. In 
])i'oj)ortion as the truth of such threats could not l>e disproved, they 
would be feared and moie oj- less believed in, and so would be effec- 
tive. It is no wonder, then, that superstition grows, and has played 
a great part in the world ; has done so, and will do so, clianging its 
forms, perhaps, but ever in the field. And again, as the joy of 
threatening aiul causing fear, and the joy of compelling by fear 
folk to do what otherwise they don't want to do, is an ecstatic joy, 
it is not surprising that old men and old women and some younger 
ones give themselves this ecstatic delight — and don't stint them- 
selves in it. Nor again are we surj)rised that the beneficiai-ies of 
the system comVjine, and support one another in their assertions, and 
that — the Church is born. 

The old Hebrews, for example, fearing hunger and neglect when 
their strength is failing teach that they hold a power to cui-se or 
bless, bring good or evil on others now and in the years to cf^me. 
The blessing of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, was thus looked upon 
as s<jmething niechanical, a something to be got, as by Jacob, even 
by trickery and fraud ; and so on. 

Now, meddling in other folk's affairs, interfering, controlling 
(delicious thought) is not only one of the most delightful — in some 
ways the most delightful of human — and as we sometimes see with 
shepherd's dogs, canine — j(jys — united doubtless with virtue, both 
in dogs and men, ujiited to, but not entirely, virtue ; — flattery of the 
egotism going for a great pait in any case probably, — not only is this 
one of the most delightful joys, but it is one the appetite for which 
grows by what it feeds on in the most inordinate way. Nero, of 
old, and the poor modern emperor of a vast European country, occu- 



pied, not with what will make people happy, but what will, in the 
one case minister say to his pleasure, or in the other case to his 
sense of " what he owes to the memory of his father " (it would be 
flue — if it wasn't ridiculous,) are instances, and pitiful instances, of 
this feature — I had almost said this disease — the lust of power.* 

But it is only when the Church, the medicine man organized, 
takes a hand at interference that the completest misery ensues ; 
completest misery ensuing on completest interference. And when 
we reflect that this complete interference can never be had until the 
majority are convinced (the majority in rmmbers or power) of its 
importance, its, so to speak, divine mission, convinced by teaching, 
or by force and the sense of their own helplessness, we begin to get 
some idea of the difficulty, the almost hopelessness, of reform in 
Church or State ; or, at least, in either so long as either one stands 
by the other. However cruel the absolutism of the King, reform is 
difficult if the Church teaches that the King can do no wrong. 
However cruel the persecutions by the Church, their refonn is diffi- 
cult if the King upholds the Church in its cruelty. We are not sur- 
prised, then, to find, in what seems to be the history of the less dis- 
tant past, of which alone as yet we seem to have nnich of a history, 
we are nor surprised I say to find long stretches of sufPering moi'c or 
less impatiently, and yet patiently, borne. And again, if laws and 
customs, whether established for the convenience of rulers, or the 
profit of certain classes, or the convenience of society at large, are 
declared by the Church to be of divine origin, and their violation 
certain to be followed by dire penalties, not only those imposed by 
the civil authority, but penalties certain to be sent of Heaven, on 
the violators, then little is there likelihood, while belief in the ut- 
terances of the Church remains, for any change in those law^s. And 
if the Chui'ch profits by the violations of those laws, profits by the 
sale of pardons for such violations, what likelihood is there that the 
Church will advocate any change in such laws ? Fortunately it 
seems that the Church is powerless without the aid of the State. It 
seems so ; for the Chui-ch seems ever changing with the changing 

* The pose of strut and swell and brag of another of the most prominent raon- 
archs of the present day, and the "me big injun " brag of himself and his officers 
and army and supporters is one of the most notable — and disgusting — instances of 
this foolish weakness ; indicative perhaps in this case of what is only possible 
among an imperfectly civilized people or social phase in whatever country admired 
and accepted. 



fortune of kin^s. And when tlio Kiii^ is tlie People at Larj[^e ? 
Then, it seems as if", first tfiat branrih of" the Clmrch that least 
profited by the retuiniii^ of the old laws, and then, little by little, 
other brariehes, would rearranj^e their views of what laws arc divinely 
connnissioned, until, at last, the branch that elects to change least or 
not to chanj^e at all, will dwindle, be lost, forf^ot, as one swamped — 
as the Egyptian Church (which taught there was no salvation with- 
out embalmment of a man's dead body l)y the Church's priests) 
slowly expired, dwindled away, was swamped and died, and was lost 
at last, beneath the new views following upon, first the Greek, then 
the Roman, then the early Christian, and almost or quite uj) to the 
Arab and Mahometan, domination. 

In all these Churches, hitherto, men's habit of thought, bolstered 
some by the interests of priests, has held a notion that a thwarting 
of the instincts of nature was a great virtue; its successful thwarting 
or fencing in was " pui-ity," the opposite was " impurity." Virtue 
it was, doubtless, in many, if not in all cases. That is always virtue 
that brings blessing, or most blessing ; always un virtue that brings 
<^nly or any needless pain and harm to self or others. liut purity 
or impurity it was only in a strained sense, fou)ided on a denial of" 
nature and a belief that man was 'wrongly made. It is as if we 
were angry and ashamed that a repeating watch struck the hours, 
and called it unvirtuous and "impure" therefor; and made vari- 
ous hindrances to its so striking, or at least only i-egarded its 
striking as not un virtue if done within certain prescribed limits 
which we set down. We can readily see that if our prescribed 
limits tallied exactly with the limits fixed for its striking by the 
constructor, or construction, of the watch, all would be well. 
No harm would be done by our intcM-ference, our rules, our laws, 
for its striking ; no harm or good, it would be wholly as if we had 
made no laws, and our action would be harmless because in effect 
inoperative. But if we did otherwise, and tried to set bounds other 
than those provided for by the construction of the watch, we should 
be likely either to injure the watch by our meddling with it and 
preventing its striking as intended, or else we should be likely to 
injure our tempers by becoming wroth if the watch struck when we 
said it ought not to. It is precisely these two things which happen 
as a result of laws and notions about purity and impurity imposed 
arbitrarily, with good intentions or otherwise, by State or Church, 
and by society at large and its utterances, its literature, plays, poems, 



romances, histories, treatises, philosophy, morals, etliics, ct id 
omne genus. In so far as they start with the unanalyzed conven- 
tional notion of what is " impurity," " the pure," etc., they do harm, 
if their idea is one not exactly in accordance with the construction 
— the physical construction — of man. They may do good by their 
laws, even if they defend them on false grounds. But, at the same 
time, they arc likely to do harm by defending them on false grounds, 
whether the action of the laws themselves ever result in harm or 
not. Falsehood is a miserable thing and not the less miserable when 
put forth by the Church, or the State, or society, or the literary ar- 
tist or workman. Indeed it is the more hurtful in proportion as its 
utterer professes a regard for truth. It was this that made the 
French recognize the distinction between the inconvenient and the 
wrong, the sinful, the impure. We may avoid things and insist on 
others avoiding them where they will bring harm on them or theirs, 
or on us or ours, or on any one ; but tiiat does not justify us in doing 
so on false grounds, on calling things by false names, ovl)efoggin<i 
the moral senile of anybody even the most simple. 

We seem to think nearly everybody most simple except our- 
selves ; and thus to justify ourselves in giving them untrue reasons 
for conduct ; either thinking thereby to save their innocence, and 
ignorance, their "• purity ;" or we give them guesses, or untrue rea- 
sons, as truth, merely because we are too stupid or too lazy or too 
ignorant ourselves to be able to tell them facts or true reasons, and 
too anxious to retain their respect for our supposed infallibility and 
all-knowingness to frankly acknowledge that we don't really under- 
stand the matter ourselves, or, at any rate, think it would be better 
for them if they did not try to learn more about it. 

We seem, poor human race, to be compassed about with lies from 
the first, from the infancy of the race and from the infancy of each 
one of us. 

I suppose of all sins the greatest sin, of all ignoblenesses the 
most ignoble, of all unworthinesses the most unworthy, is to inflict 
loss on others (say to secure aggrandizement to ourselves,) by an ap- 
peal, a crafty or ungenerous appeal, to others' nobility. This, and 
not having courage to say we don't know, and inventing mendacious 
explanations and, alas, mendacious threats, seem to explain fully 
enough, — along with the mystification from using the same word in 
several meanings, and along with assuming that what touches our 
emotions ought to convince us, — explains I say fully enough the 



cause of a great, perhaps the greater, part of the past misery of the 
human race. 

We seem, if we reflect on this long enough, to see in the recog- 
nition of this (the recognition of the wrongs that using the deceiving 
methods just cited must lead to) as it were a round of a ladder on 
which we stand at last ; while up and beyond us stretch rounds on 
which we have yet no secure footing, rounds ungrasped perhaps, 
but more or less clearly seen, the ideals of men, the ideals of the 
men of our day, and with them, the ideals of those to come aftei- us 
even, which we cannot individualize but yet can see as a vanishing 
series, mounting to the skies, lost in light, in ineffable beauty and 
blessing; and, with them also, the ideals of the men of the past, the 
remoter past, the far far distant, the remotest past ; ideals that are 
still ideals, still unrealized, and so beyond us, among the rounds, 
round on round, above and beyond us. And then we seem to be 
aware of how lately some of the rounds up which we have stepped 
in our short individual lives perhaps, or rounds up whicK our race 
has perhaps slowly and laboriously clambered, have each in turn 
been vague ideals ; ideals often seemingly almost hopeless of ever 
being reached (as when men in America not so long ago dreamed of, 
but as almost hopeless, the abolishing of American negro slavery). 
And, clinging where we stand, a solemn sense comes over us. So far 
hath the Lord helped us? In the unknown all is, foi- us, as dark ; 
in the known all uncertain ; we scarcely dare to say more than that 
we seem to be here. Are we to falter? Climb no more? Look 
no more upward ? Close our eyes? Or can we do so, even if we 
would ? 



LETTERS. 

" While endless ages wax and waneP 

To the fair flow'ret of the sun 'tis given 
To be immortal in the seeds it bears, 
Fall they but haply where the ground is ripe 
That, as if loving, gently nurtures them 

To breeding. And so, on and on ; 
Each flower's new seeding taking chance the same. 

But unto men, high gifted, flower of ages j)ast, 
Bred in the sun and nurtured on and on, 

An immortality is given in record made, 

(Yet to the sun flower too, in vanish'd forms) 
Long buried, brought to light long ages on ; 

Records quick read of coming men to follow on, 

Fixing the sequences that breed a borrow'd thought ; 
And, as the sequence of recorded notes 
Of vanish'd song wake still again 

Old echoes in new hearts, so on and on ; 

Haply to be while endless ages wax and wane. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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